Il M'a Dit, Elle M'a Dit
by soulofair
Summary: Right before his miraculous return after three years of being away, Sherlock makes an uncharacteristic decision. Takes place after "For You and For Myself".
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Hello again! So, I couldn't simply put down the "pen" (meaning, I couldn't back away from my computer) for long.

If you're with me after reading For You and For Myself, I'm going to make a promise right now: it's not going to be as dark as the last story. It's spring, the weather is wonderful here, so I have a feeling that the weather is going to influence that. :P

If you're new to the party, first: welcome, and second: this story can be read alone or after reading For You and For Myself.

Anyway, again, I don't recommend reading this if you haven't seen the first episode of the second series (or any of the second series for that matter). I don't own the rights to Sherlock, don't own the characters either. All rights are reserved to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Arthur Conan Doyle, the BBC, and any other group that I have not mentioned.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Three years.<p>

They weren't great, but at the end of the day, the work that Sherlock had set out to complete had been successful. He could rest easy now that he was absolutely certain that Moriarty's web was completely destroyed. Each silken strand that was woven back to Moriarty had been decimated.

No wonder Sherlock was exhausted.

Even though he desperately craved to get back to London, Sherlock knew that he had to be prudent in his return. As a precautionary move, he had decided to wait three years, almost to the day, before he would find John and assure his friend that he wasn't dead. Though it nearly crippled Sherlock to stay away from London when he knew that he could easily be back in the city and back to a life close to the life he had come to know, it was a small comfort to know that time didn't work backwards, and with every day that passed, he got closer to that three year mark.

With all of the time he had to wait, he spent a lot of time travelling around, seeing the world to the best of his abilities before he would have to settle back down into the life he knew.

Which was why he was in Seattle.

He stood in front of the townhouse that he had arranged for Irene three years earlier. He could see that she had settled into her life there, though he wasn't sure what she had been up to. Sherlock's focuses had been primarily on taking out Moriarty and not on tracking Irene. But he knew that she still lived here; the risk of showing up at her doorstep wasn't going to be a great one.

Sherlock climbed the stairs to the front door and rang the doorbell. He stood silently on the front step, glancing around at the house and the neighborhood, waiting for someone to answer the door. The neighborhood was quaint; a bit old for Sherlock's liking, but Irene seemed to like the place.

He stood out there for a few minutes before he resigned to the fact that no one was going to answer the door. Sherlock turned on his heel and marched down the front stairs and returned to the hired car. He started the car and drove off.

Two hours later, Irene Adler walked into her home, smelling something delicious as soon as she opened the door. There were noises of someone moving around the kitchen, which was odd, considering that Irene lived alone. She slipped off her shoes and quietly padded through the hallway into the kitchen.

Sherlock had heard the key slide into the lock and knew full well that she would come into the kitchen, armed with something that wasn't necessarily a weapon but could easily serve as one. "I'm not dead," he called out. "Let's have dinner."

Irene's jaw dropped as she stood outside the kitchen, just before the doorway. She, much like everyone else in Sherlock's life, had resigned to the reality that he was truly gone. Even though she knew who was in her kitchen, she was still going to throw one of her shoes at him.

She knew that she had hit her target when she heard a yelp and movement towards the door. "I make you dinner and you throw shoes at me?" he asked her as he stuck his head around the corner.

"You're ginger!" she cried. "Oh… I knew you had the right coloring to be a redhead."

"You hit me in the shoulder with your shoe!"

"You had it coming."

"I made you dinner."

"So I've gathered. I wasn't aware that you could cook."

"When we lived in France when I was an adolescent, my mother insisted that I learn. I never found it to be useful until after I jumped off of Bart's. You would be surprised by how many people can be persuaded with the incentive of a good meal."

"I knew that."

"I meant, a meal of actual food, Miss Adler."

She smirked. "So, Mr. Holmes… what's on the menu?"

"It's a surprise," he hummed as he stepped back into the kitchen.

An hour and a half later, once the meal had been eaten, Irene sat staring at Sherlock. "To which do I owe the pleasure?" she murmured. "I don't think we've discussed that yet."

"I've made you dinner."

"Yes…"

"It's my way of indicating that I might not be as opposed to having other forms of dinner."

She raised her eyebrows. "Oh."

"Of course, it'd be a mutual agreement. Even if you're not willing, you've still gotten a meal out of this."

"What makes you think I wouldn't be obliging to other forms of dinner?"

"Three years is such a long time."

"But you're now three years smarter. And smart will always be sexy."

Instead of making a garbled noise in reply, he smirked at her. "So…?"

"Give me a little while. You've gone to all of this trouble to make us dinner. Let me show you how it's really done…" she crooned as she stood from the table and walked out of the dining room.

Sherlock sat back in his chair. He'd tell Irene about the dream later. He was far too interested in seeing how things progressed to hinder the process by telling her about the dream before things even began.


	2. Chapter 2

Quite honestly, Sherlock had no idea how this evening was going to pan out. Irene was unpredictable in almost every way except for one: she knew what she was doing and would make sure that this engagement would be a memorable one.

While he waited for Irene to do whatever it was that she needed to do in order to prepare, he walked around the house, examining what she had decided to do with the place. The house was much warmer than the house in Belgravia, though there were elements that reminded him of the house.

Suddenly, Sherlock heard music playing. It was slow jazz, which was surprising to Sherlock; he'd never pegged Irene to be a fan of jazz. He interpreted this as his signal to come and find her.

And find her he did.

She was sitting on her bed, wearing only a nightshirt, surprisingly modest in comparison to other states in which he'd seen her in the past. "A bit overdressed?" he asked as he stepped into the room.

Irene smirked. "We'll see how quickly you can remedy that."

She stood up from the bed and started to help Sherlock out of his shirt. Sherlock busied himself with taking the pins out of her hair, setting each one down on the nightstand next to the bed. He wanted to rid the situation of anything that might poke him in the eye inadvertently. That point aside, he wanted to make sure that he had a playing role in this; Irene didn't have to do all of the work.

Her hands slipped under the waistband of his trousers as she pulled the shirttails free and she ran her hands over the base of his spine. Her hands were warm against his skin, and she started to gently rake over the skin with her immaculately manicured nails.

He pulled the last of the pins from her hair, sending the coiffed curls down her shoulders. The scent of her hair products was more prominent now, and with her hair free, Sherlock wove his fingers through the dark hair until he found the base of her skull. As relatively inexperienced as he was, he had had some basic knowledge of what made people feel good. Head massages in particular were things that he had enjoyed as a child, especially when he was ill. He was aware that Irene was targeting every erogenous zone, trying to elicit a response from him. He was trying to do the same, and for this reason, he was adamant that he wouldn't indicate that he was enjoying this before she did.

When he leaned in to kiss her forehead, he could feel her eyebrows rise under his lips. He hummed laughingly. "You didn't think I would know what I'm doing, did you?"

"Don't count your chickens before they hatch," Irene murmured as she eased the shirt off of his shoulders and started dotting his collarbone with kisses.

Sherlock started unbuttoning Irene's nightshirt and as soon as the shirt was completely unbuttoned, he pushed the shirt open and grasped her hips. Irene glanced up at him with an amused look, but then turned her attention down to undoing his belt and getting his trousers off.

Eventually, Irene was completely nude while Sherlock was still in his underwear. Of course, the fun had hardly begun, but if anything were to be kept in mind during this process, it would be that this was something that required a remarkable amount of time and attention paid to detail. Time and effort were necessary to do this properly.

They started slow; all of their actions were calculated and shallow for what seemed like ages until Sherlock tired of this and initiated the next step, where every motion became looser, more organic, until nothing was predictable, nothing was weak, and everything made sense. Sherlock's senses were more engaged in this moment than they had ever been before. This scared him; this was the drug that he had never had much experience with, and here it was, one of the strongest chemical reactions he had encountered.

And once things became heated, their actions and motions became rushed, intense, and escalated, leading them to a rather unexpected end. Irene rolled off of Sherlock and onto her back. She let out a nervous laugh and pushed her hair off of her sweaty forehead. Sherlock rolled over onto his stomach and moved so that he was between her legs, his head resting on Irene's abdomen. He was exhausted. Neither one of them had begged, but Sherlock had begun to think that maybe he shouldn't put it past Irene to make him beg twice.

The accusations that he was sexually inexperienced were not completely unfounded. Yes, he had had sex (there had been several occasions within the last three years when sex had been a useful means of getting what he wanted) but never had he had sex with someone who did sex for a profession. He feared that she was sorely disappointed in his performance.

Irene let out a sigh and combed back his curls from his forehead. "What made you change your mind?" she asked quietly.

He smiled against her skin. "A dream."

"A dream?" she echoed. "Sexual, I presume?"

"There was sex involved, but let me assure you, it did not play a leading role."

"Oh?"

"We had children."

Irene let out an involuntary snort. "I can assure you, that would never happen. I have taken every precaution against reproduction."

"I have no doubt."

Sherlock wasn't sure why Irene's words had impacted him, but they had. He felt a little embarrassed for confessing this to her, only to be scoffed at. He hadn't asked to have the dream; it just sort of happened.

Irene must have sensed this, because she moved her hand down from his hair and to his face, caressing his cheek. "What were they like?"

"The children?"

"Yes. How many, first of all?"

"Three."

"Three? You managed to procreate three times? That seems a bit wishful, don't you think?"

"Are you going to be rude, or are you going to let me tell you the story?" he snapped defensively.

"Sorry. Go on."

"Two daughters and a son."

"Whom did they look more like? Did we name them unordinary names?"

"The eldest, Adele, looked more like you. The middle, Aveline, looked more like my mother. The son, Julian, looked like me."

"No Hamish?"

"Julian's middle name."

Irene laughed quietly, her abdomen vibrating with her muffled laughs. "Now, Mr. Holmes, why would you dream that we had children? Is your biological clock ticking?" she teased.

"Haven't the slightest idea. The strangest thing about it though was not the actual dream itself, but rather, the fact that it didn't alarm me."

"Oh lord."

"I'm not saying that we should rush out and procreate. I think we both know that that would be an absolute disaster. But, it's an intriguing point. I never saw myself as the sort of person who would imagine myself as a father."

"I would have to concur with you on that point. You're not the fatherly sort."

"And you're not the motherly sort."

"So why would you dream about having kids? Were there any animals involved?"

"Gladstone, the dog."

"Picket fence?"

"Far from it."

"Oh good. So you're not dreaming of the stereotypical domestic life."

"Not by normal standards. But, in comparison to the lives that we lead, it was remarkably domestic."

She pondered this thought, but before she could bring it up again, Sherlock had fallen asleep.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: So, a few housekeeping things here:

One: I was asked to clarify what the title means. My French is a bit not good, but the title (hopefully) means "He Told Me, She Told Me". (Admittedly, my Spanish is much better, so I'm hoping that the perceived similarities with the two languages holds.)

And while we're on the topic of technicalities and accurate use of language, the actual title, if going with the proper French grammar, I'm guessing should technically be "At-il Me Dit, Elle Me Dit", but for some reason, the system ate my dashes, so it's probably not as grammatically sound as it should be.

Two: Finals have started in my world, so updates might be a bit spotty in the next few days. I'll try to be consistent, but we'll see how that goes.

Anyway, enjoy!

* * *

><p>The light from the early Seattle morning came through the curtains, filling the room with a dim light. Irene woke early, woken up by Sherlock's movements on top of her. He had fallen asleep with his head resting right below her breasts, his ear pressed to her chest.<p>

Of all the many scenarios that Irene had imagined in the last three years, this was not one of them. She had always assumed that Sherlock's cold distance was just how he was with everyone. However, now that he was asleep, resting on her like a child on his mother, Irene knew that this assumption had been wrong. He was the most human and warmest being that she had ever had the pleasure of sharing her bed with.

She smiled down at him, running her fingers lightly through those luscious curls of his. Even though she knew he was quickly approaching forty, he seemed ageless. He was absolutely beautiful and alien, even in sleep.

As strange as it sounded, Irene determined that any child of Sherlock Holmes would be a fortunate child.

While she mulled this thought, Sherlock sighed in his sleep, curling one of his hands around her hip and the other around her left shoulder blade. Even if Irene wanted to move away from him, she wouldn't be able to. He had somehow managed to completely wrap himself around her, almost as if he was claiming her to be his.

A small thought nagged at the back of Irene's head. She had effectively disabled such thoughts nearly a decade and a half before, asserting to herself and the world that she was not the sort of person to succumb to such a thing. She was not attracted to men. Men were not her thing. Women—strong, assertive women who didn't want the commitment of a relationship but the passion of one—were her thing.

But at that moment, she could see what Sherlock was talking about. She could almost see those three children—almost able to imagine the process of bringing each of them into the world. It wasn't difficult imagining how she and Sherlock would go about doing this, though she suspected that baby-making sex would be loads more fun than the sex that she and Sherlock had had. She didn't see any wedding or marriage license, but she could imagine promising the rest of her life to Sherlock and anything that might come their way.

A small twinge in her gut only perpetuated the images she was creating for herself. Irene almost smiled at the thought of three beautiful brunette children with sharp blue eyes and delicious cheekbones, all as brilliant and mysterious as their father, but as cunning as she. She supposed that their daughters would be dancers as she had aspired to be. With Sherlock's lanky body and the inheritance of Irene's grace, the daughters would easily be dancers. Of course, they would also be doctors or lawyers or great thinkers, but undoubtedly gorgeous. And their son would have to be a replication of his father. Though, for his sake, Irene hoped that her son wouldn't be as socially inept as his father.

Irene had never wanted children. She could never be a good mother. Good mothers didn't chain people up and whip them, satisfying sexual fantasies that seemed odd to most people. Good mothers didn't go around making a living as a sex worker. Good mothers were supportive of their children, teaching them about the world in order to make them good world citizens. Irene wasn't confident that she could ever do that.

Sherlock turned his head, drawing in a deep breath as he did so. "God, you're loud," he murmured sleepily.

Irene jumped at the sound of his voice, abruptly ending her reverie. "How long have you been awake?"

"I've been dozing for a little while. Your breathing pattern changed. Why are you awake?"

"I couldn't sleep," she admitted. "Your dream got me thinking."

"Oh?"

"What were they like?"

"You've already asked this."

"I know… but you've had this dream about children that don't exist and a life you wouldn't expect to lead. And I'm in that life. So, what were they like?"

He blinked languidly at her. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

"Irene, I had that dream three years ago."

"And yet, you're here."

She had a valid point. And if he hadn't wanted her to know, he shouldn't have brought it up.

"Adele was little. She was very small at birth because you were in the Karachi prison for about a third of the pregnancy. When she was born, she had a headful of dark hair that, as she got older, became thicker and curlier. She had unruly curls and was a scrawny little thing. Her limbs were disproportional to the rest of her body, so she was basically a walking disaster."

Irene laughed. "Were you ungraceful as a child?"

"No. I just managed to hurt myself a lot because I was always getting into things I shouldn't."

"What was she like as a teenager? Did she ever grow into herself?"

"Moriarty's men killed her when she was five. She was killed right in front of us."

Irene's eyes widened and she let out a little gasp. "What?"

"Mind you, I had just faked my death, so Moriarty was on my mind. I'm certain that this was why this happened."

Irene nodded slightly. "What about Aveline?"

"She was an accident. So was Adele, but with Aveline, she was conceived despite the fact that you were on birth control and I had had a vasectomy. Obviously, we were apprehensive about having another child after Adele, but when you had Aveline, we did okay. She was born in Ireland, where we moved after Adele's death in Australia. She grew up, became a lawyer, got married, and I presume she would have had children if I had stayed in the dream."

The thought of having a grown daughter intrigued Irene. "And the son? Julian?"

He smirked. "Absolute trouble. He got that from you, no doubt."

She rolled her eyes. "So… you want babies, and you want babies with me?"

Sherlock snorted and closed his eyes again. His eyelashes just barely brushed against Irene's bare skin. "I'm not sure what I want."

"But here you are…"

"Yes, here I am."

"So, you must have some idea… no?"

"I don't think it's as simple as that."

"Sherlock."

"I'm serious."

"Why are you in my bed, on top of me, naked if you aren't…"

"I was fulfilling a longstanding curiosity."

"Which was?" she prompted.

"Who's better at making dinner," he explained.

"And?"

"Personally?"

"Yes."

"Nothing beats a good French meal."

"It's a good thing I'm French then."

"Yes it is," he agreed as he examined a mole on her hip, brushing over it with one of his long, graceful fingers.

This action prompted Irene's memory of the night before. "Based on your performance last night, I am led to believe that you're not so much in the way of virginal."

"Desperate times call for desperate measures," he mumbled.

"Oh, so I'm an act of desperation?"

"No. This was carefully planned out. But there were times when I had to resort to fornication as a means of getting what I needed."

"So you prostituted yourself out?"

"I suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"Were you a virgin when you started?"

"No."

"So you weren't a virgin when we met?"

"No."

"When did you lose your virginity?"

"Goodness, you're nosy."

"I think it warrants some discussion."

He sighed. "College. It was a mistake, but at least I had some sense to use protection. She took advantage of my inebriated state and for some reason, slipped Rohypnol into my drink after the fact. I have very little recollection of the events after having sex with her, until about noon the following day."

"So you could possibly have a little Sherlock running around?"

"Unlikely. She was killed three months later. Jealous ex-boyfriend did her in."

"Well…" Irene replied, slightly taken aback by Sherlock's story.

He sighed and closed his eyes. Irene stared at him intently, trying to conjure something to say. "What?" Sherlock hummed.

"Were we happy?" she asked him quietly.

"I think so."

"God… this is absolute madness! We are the last two people in the world who should be talking about being domestic and settling down!" Irene laughed.

"But you're not completely opposed to the thought, are you?"

"Frighteningly enough, no."

"Strange, isn't it?"

"What is wrong with us?"

He snorted. "Well, for one, you made your living as a dominatrix and causing trouble for the British government while I've made my life by chasing criminals for the thrill of the chase. Add in the fact that we're both supposed to be dead, and I think you have your answer," he quipped.

"It'd be a gorgeous child."

"Genetically speaking, yes."

"Beautiful curls… absolutely perfect cheekbones and eyes. Your height, my frame, and obviously, our combined intelligences would ensure that the child would be set for life."

Sherlock stared up at her with a look of bemusement on his face. "Whose biological clock is ticking now?"

"We can discuss hypothetical offspring without having to produce said hypothetical offspring," she sniffed.

"But you're starting to warm to the idea."

She was quiet. This was certainly not normal. Not for her and not for Sherlock at least.

"This is outrageous."

"Incredibly," he agreed.

"So remarkably foolish."

"Couldn't have said it better myself."

"The poor child would probably be corrupted."

"Oh, I have no doubt."

"There are so many things that could go wrong!"

"I can come up with at least a hundred off of the top of my head."

She braced herself up on her elbows. "Do you want to practice making a baby some more?"

"I thought you'd never ask," he breathed.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: As you may have noticed, the title of the story has changed. Thank you Barus, for your French expertise. Just for fun, I ran both titles through a translator (probably not the most reliable source, but c'est la vie) and as it turns out, the original title wasn't what I had intended. So, thank you again, Barus!

Just as a matter of interest, how many people are reading this story either in English, which is their non-native language or translated from English to their native language? (If that makes sense. Basically, what languages are people reading this in?) It's always fascinating to me how small the world actually is and how wide-spread these things get.

* * *

><p>The practicing went well. They became a very good team, though the term 'team' really wasn't an accurate term for what they were. Regardless, they began what could only be described as a relationship, though they would never actually acknowledge the terms in public.<p>

For the next two months, Sherlock became a fixture of Irene's household (it was just her and her gorgeous Irish Setter, Madeleine). They discussed everything and anything, sometimes staying up far too late for Irene's work schedule. Sherlock decided that he was going to wait to go back to London; pushing back the date that he had anticipated that he would return by a week for every week he was with Irene.

It was a week into the third month when Irene started acting differently. Sherlock was already sensitive to her habits and health, so when the slight change in her sleeping habits and her appearance came about, he knew something was up. His suspicions were validated when she returned home from work one evening with a bag from a local pharmacy. She resorted to the bathroom and was in there for some time.

As soon as she emerged from the bathroom, Sherlock was standing there, looking at her expectantly. "So?"

"What?"

"Oh, don't be so coy… I know what you had in the bag."

"Oh."

He raised his eyebrows at her, prompting her to explain the situation. She picked up the test and held it up. "Fifty-five seconds before we know," she explained.

"Right then," Sherlock replied as he leaned against the doorjamb and folded his arms across his chest.

Irene started wringing her hands nervously. Sherlock eyed her warily. "You're nervous."

"Aren't you?"

"No."

"Why not?" she asked him.

"I think my suspicions will be confirmed."

"What are your suspicions?"

"We'll see in about twenty seconds."

"Great, you're counting down?"

"Fifteen now."

"Sherlock."

"Thirteen now."

"Sherlock Holmes… don't do this."

"Nine."

"Oh you're horrible."

"Six."

"Sherlock!"

"Four."

"Why are you doing this? It's already stressful enough."

He smirked at her and leaned over her shoulder. "Let's see it."

She smacked her hand down onto the counter, blindly feeling around for the test. "I don't want you to see it before I do. What if it's negative?"

"Then it's negative."

"Will you be upset if it's negative?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

"It would make sense that you wouldn't get pregnant so soon after going off of your birth control. I mean, I know we have superior genes, but it would be surprising if…"

His voice faltered as Irene held up the test to show him the result. Sherlock blinked a few times before he took the test from Irene's hand. "Oh," he answered plaintively.

"So?"

"Suspicions confirmed."

"How?" Irene laughed. "I didn't even figure it out until this morning."

"You've been paler lately."

"I've been paler?"

He shrugged. "But this is good."

She smiled at him. "Is it?"

"Yes."

Irene began to giggle and fell against Sherlock's chest, wrapping her arms around him and continuing to laugh. He started chuckling and followed suit, placing a gentle kiss on her head. "So, now that it's been confirmed that you're now crafting what will certainly be an evil genius, dinner will be ready in a few minutes."

She nodded against him, letting out a little sob. Sherlock glanced down at her in concern. "I'm fine," she assured him. "This is good, I promise."

Reassured, he stepped away from the bathroom and left the bedroom to go make the final preparations for the meal. Irene was left in the bedroom, holding the positive pregnancy test, finishing her tears of happiness. Of course, she was terrified of what the future meant, but in this moment, she was thrilled. In the last few months, she had become accustomed to having Sherlock around, and even though a baby didn't necessarily mean that he would automatically stay with her, she knew that she still have the opportunity to share at least a small part of her life with him.

She knew that he would eventually go back to London, but for now, this was her focus. She knew that this would be his focus too. And that was a reassuring thought.

From that point forward, they fell into a nice pattern of domesticity, though the gender roles were strangely reversed. Irene would go to work and be out all day while Sherlock stayed back at the house and did the tasks that if they had lived even six decades earlier, would have been stereotypically feminine. He didn't mind doing this; Irene had agreed to let him stay with her while he was waiting to go back to London, he enjoyed Madeleine (she was a very smart dog and he had managed to train her to do a few tricks during his time at Irene's home), and for the first time in three years, he could clear his mind and work on reestablishing his deduction skills.

Other than the periodic bouts of morning sickness that afflicted Irene, the pregnancy progressed without any problems. At the first appointment, it was confirmed that she was about six weeks along, which meant that it had only taken a few days for Irene to get pregnant after she was off of her birth control. At the second appointment, they were able to hear the heartbeat for the first time. It was also at this appointment that Sherlock began to question whether or not he should return to London. (He and Irene discussed this matter after the appointment, deciding that he would return to London when she was through the risky area when she could miscarry during the first trimester.)

He decided that he was going to stay until the summer, putting Irene at five or six months along. He still had to make the appropriate arrangements with Molly, to inform her that he was not dead and that he was returning to London. Of course, he had ulterior motives by contacting Molly; he was trying to gauge the situation with John to make sure that the return would be as painless as possible for all persons involved.

One night, about five months in, Irene woke up to a weird feeling on her abdomen. It felt like tickling, but unlike tickling she had experienced before. "Sherlock… stop tickling me…" she groaned into the darkness.

"I'm not touching you," he replied.

Irene's eyes flew open as soon as she realized what was happening. It was the most bizarre feeling in the world. "Oh!" she cried. "Oh my goodness… I think I just felt the baby move then!"

"It's probably gas," Sherlock muttered as he turned over onto his side.

She glared at him through the black of the room, but sat diligently, with her hand firmly affixed to the spot where she had felt the movement before. She even went as far to start prodding around, trying to feel something. It wasn't another half an hour before she felt something, at which point, she started batting at Sherlock excitedly. "Ow! I can report you for abuse for that," he grumbled sleepily.

"It's the baby. Give me your hand. Quick!"

She ripped his hand over from his side and smacked it down on her bump. "Do you feel that?"

"No."

"Oh, come on… you have to be able to feel that! The baby is moving around like crazy!"

"Irene… I can't feel anything."

"Press your hand down a little bit. Don't be too rough… only a little pressure should do."

Sherlock rolled over so that he was facing her and adjusted his hand so that he could try and see what Irene was talking about. His entire hand could cover the small bump, so there was a better chance that he would be able to feel any movement if there was any movement to feel. He started to move his hand around, gently prodding and shifting his hand around to gain a better perspective on the schematics of Irene's internal organs. "Anything?" she asked him.

He didn't answer right away. "The top of your uterus is about here," he said, poking to a spot about three inches below her belly button.

"That's not helpful."

"It might be."

"Do you feel anything other than the top of my uterus?"

"Other innards."

"Sherlock…"

"I don't feel the baby moving. It's probably still too early for me to feel anything, and you're perceiving that you're feeling movement with your hand because you are associating the movement you're feeling from the inside with the movement that doesn't actually exist, but what you feel on the outside."

"Wow… yet again, you've ruined a special moment," Irene sighed.

"I didn't ruin anything! There's nothing for me to feel yet!"

"Whatever," she muttered as she rolled over on her side, turning her back to Sherlock.

"I'm not discrediting what you're saying. I'm now starting to think that it's not gas," he explained.

She didn't respond. Sherlock rolled his eyes and rolled onto his back. "Oh, okay. You're going to lie there, pretending that you're asleep, but you're not going to be asleep. You're going to plot out some way to get back at me. That's very productive."

"Why do you have to ruin everything?" she asked him.

"I'm not ruining anything."

"You think the movement of our child is air passing through my intestines!"

"It's a very valid possibility."

"You do realize there's a human in here, right?"

"Irene."

"Sherlock."

"I'm perfectly aware of what is in there. I heard the heartbeat with you."

"Right. So, why are you adamant that it's not the baby or that you can't feel anything?"

"Because I don't feel anything," he sighed. "Really, it's nothing personal."

She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. "I know it's not. I just wish that you could experience this too," she explained softly.

"Um… no… I'm good. You're doing a fine job with… this. With being pregnant, I mean."

She snorted. "Right. Just for the record, I will use this as leverage for any and all future arguments."

"This particular situation or the pregnancy in general?"

"The pregnancy in general. Though, this particular situation might make an excellent weapon."

"See, you make it so magical," he mused.

Three days later, Irene came running into the bathroom while Sherlock was taking a shower. She ripped open the shower curtain and threw her top off and onto the ground. Before he could squawk with displeasure, Irene had his sudsy hand on her bump. "There. Do you feel that?" she asked him excitedly.

His brow furrowed for a moment before his eyes widened and he glanced up to Irene's face. "Was that it?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and awestruck.

She nodded. "There. That's that. I win."

"That was three days ago, Irene. The baby has probably shifted and has grown since then, making it possible for others to feel the movement."

"So?"

"You don't win."

"You're just jealous," she sniffed as she closed the curtain and started to walk out of the bathroom before pausing. "Just so you know, you have a mole in the shape of a heart on your bum. I find it rather endearing."

"Thank you for that bit of trivia," he answered.

"Glad to be of service!" she chirped.

Before she was completely out of the room, Sherlock felt compelled to have the final word. "But it could still be gas!"

Three days later, Sherlock was on a plane for London. He and Irene had made arrangements for him to be back in Seattle for the final month of the pregnancy, in case she went into labor early. It was not going to be an easy transition, but great effort went into making sure that things went as smoothly as possible.

Two days later, Sherlock arrived at 221B Baker Street, anticipating that John would not be warm or welcoming.

With a deep breath, Sherlock rang the doorbell and waited for someone to answer the door. Much to his delight, it was John who answered the door. "John."

John blinked a few times, shook his head, blinked again, and then proceeded to stare at Sherlock with his mouth agape. "But you're dead…"

"Clearly, that's not true."

"You were dead! I had your ashes!"

"Oh come on, John… you should know better than that. Were they human ashes?"

John's face fell. "I never looked. We just buried them."

"I know."

"You bastard!"

"John, you should have known something was up. You never saw the body, did you?"

"I saw you, on the ground, bloody and dead."

"You looked but you did not see. It wasn't my body on the ground. I drugged your coffee again."

"Oh bloody hell…" John groaned.

Sherlock knew that something was going to happen based on John's glare. He was taking this extremely well, which made Sherlock suspect that John didn't actually believe that Sherlock was alive.

"You're taking this too well. Molly told you, didn't she?"

John nodded. "She told me three weeks ago. I didn't believe her."

"Are you going to punch me?"

"I'm really considering it."

"Well, when you do, give me some warning."

"Why would I give you warning?"

"I don't know… courtesy?"

"You're a bastard, you know that? Who fakes their death?" John cried rhetorically.

Sherlock resisted the urge to smirk. "Well, since we're on this topic of dead people who aren't really dead, as a word of warning, I should inform you that Irene's alive. She's alive and doing well. We have dinner on a regular basis. We've decided that we have sort of a club composed of people who are supposed to be dead but aren't."

"Oh good. So, when I punch you in the nose, she'll be disappointed?" John snapped.

"Probably. I think she worships my face."

John stared at Sherlock, who smirked at him. "How is the marriage?" he asked.

John cocked his head. "I don't wear a ring. How could you possibly know about Mary?"

"All of your clothing is recently ironed. You're wearing cologne. Plus, it was in the papers. Oh John, your mind has gotten slower since we last saw each other."

"Honestly, will Irene be disappointed if I punch you in the nose?"

He shrugged. "Sympathy dinner would be interesting to try."

"And you're not talking about a dinner with food, are you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What makes you think food isn't involved?" he asked innocently.

John let out a frustrated cry. "You're still the same annoying dick that you were before, except now you've gone and become sexually active. Either she's an absolute saint or you're a god in the bedroom, because you're rather insufferable."

"Both," Sherlock answered.

"What?"

"She is an absolute saint, and as I have been reliably informed, I am not quite god-like in the bedroom, but I certainly don't disappoint."

"I didn't need to know that," John groaned.

Sherlock started to chuckle as he saw John's face turn several shades of red. He was now starting to see why Irene liked teasing people. It was fun to see them become uncomfortable.

Fortunately, John was obliging with letting Sherlock stay at the flat (on the couch, of course) after making Sherlock give a detailed account of his time away from London. Sherlock was fine with disclosing the details of his work, knowing that this was a good way of integrating himself into John's life again. Sherlock doubted that they would ever be the same as they were before Sherlock jumped, but he knew that they were headed in the right direction.

As Sherlock curled up on the couch (not his old couch, but one that was presumably Mary's couch), his phone buzzed with a text from Irene.

_The baby moved. Mrs. McMillan from next-door felt the baby move. I._

He laughed and replied with: _Not convinced._ _Mrs. McMillan is senile. Have a good day. S_.

She instantly shot back with: _You ass. :P Good night. I._


	5. Chapter 5

Irene was lying on Sherlock's bed at 221C Baker Street (he had taken the downstairs flat since Mary and John were upstairs), staring up at the ceiling, completely nude. She had showered and had decided to lie down for a little while. One to appreciate the finer things in life, Irene fingered the sheets on the bed, able to determine their thread count and the origin of the fabric. She sank into the mattress, giving her back and hips a needed break from moving around and standing up. His pillows, emanating his scent, were soft and warm. She never wanted to leave this bed. If, god forbid, she were put on bed rest, she would demand that the bed that she rested in was this one.

After slipping into a little nap, she woke up to the noise of people walking up the stairs. She quickly got out of the bed and stepped into a pair of clean underwear she had snagged from her small valise and snatched up one of Sherlock's shirts draped across the footboard.

She met Sherlock in the foyer, the shirt still entirely unbuttoned, hanging open across her shoulders and back like a jacket. Irene shifted her weight from her feet to her tiptoes, bringing Sherlock's face down to meet hers in a deep hello-kiss.

Sherlock tried to protest, trying to get Irene off of him as he gesticulated some message with his hands. Irene shook her head and deepened the kiss. Sherlock's posture slackened as he resigned to the kiss. His efforts weren't useful.

Irene soon realized what Sherlock was trying to tell her when a short, blonde woman walked into the hall and let out a cry of surprise. "Oh! Sherlock, you didn't tell us that you had company!" she chirped as she quickly averted her gaze.

John stepped into the room behind the blonde woman and gaped at the scene. "Sherlock… why is Irene in the foyer?"

Irene dropped away from Sherlock and started to hastily button the shirt. "Oh my goodness," she hissed in embarrassment.

Sherlock smirked as he turned to look at John. "Told you that she's not dead. Mary, this is Irene. Irene, this is Mary, John's wife."

Irene smiled and offered her hand out to shake Mary's hand, leaving half of the shirt unbuttoned and her belly exposed through the flaps of the shirt. John's eyes widened as he realized what he was seeing. "What is that?" he asked in horror as he pointed at Irene's prominent bump.

Sherlock and Irene glanced down at what he was pointing at. "Oh. Are you referring to the growth?" Sherlock asked.

Irene hummed in agreement. "I think he's referring to the parasite," she quipped.

"Parasite?" Mary asked in concern.

"Oh, don't worry. Completely harmless. Sticks around for about nine months before gradually becoming fully functional in the external world. I've heard that they're rather loud and messy once they're out, but lovely to be around as they get to be older. The incubation period is said to be absolutely magical. I have to say that I don't necessarily agree with that sentiment."

"Oh for god's sake," John muttered. "How pregnant are you?"

"Six months," Sherlock interjected.

John's eyes widened again as he processed this new information. "Is it yours?"

Irene wrung her hands, pretending to see nervous. "Oh goodness… I hope it's his… otherwise, it'd be Immaculate Conception, and last time I checked, I was hardly a virgin."

Sherlock chuckled as he turned towards the kitchen in 221B. "How long are you staying?" he asked Irene.

"I was hoping for a week or two."

"Yes, that's fine."

Irene followed him up the stairs. "You aren't interested in knowing how the scan went?" she called after him. "I know the gender!"

John stared at Mary, who was watching the situation with absolutely no context, but had a smile on her face. "I never thought of Sherlock as being a dad."

"And here I was thinking that we would be the only ones announcing a pregnancy tonight…" John murmured. "Bloody hell."

Mary laughed as she walked over to her husband and hugged him. "He can tell us how to get through the first few months."

Irene closed the door behind Sherlock and padded up behind him. She began to unbutton his shirt from behind. "Irene… I'm supposed to have dinner with John and Mary," he explained as he took hold of both of her hands to stop her progress.

She hummed as she broke free from his grip and resumed undressing him. "With both of them? Wow. I am impressed. And here, I was under the impression you were a monogamous man. Good for you!" she murmured.

Sherlock snorted as he realized that he had walked right into that one. "You know what I mean. We're having Steak Diane tonight."

"So John knows that you can cook?"

"Why do you think we are on speaking terms again? My ability to cook was a peace offering," Sherlock replied before turning around to look at Irene. "Interesting choice in apparel," he mused.

"At least I'm wearing clothing."

He smirked. "You've effectively given John and Mary the scare of their lives. I suspect that they are going to announce their pregnancy tonight."

Irene cocked her head. "Is she?"

"All the signs are there. But surprisingly, it's John who lets on more than Mary. I've never seen him as happy has he has been for the last few weeks."

Irene smiled at him as she started pulling his shirt out from the waistband. "So is that why you've been grinning like a loon since I walked into the room?"

"What?" Sherlock asked in surprise. "I have not."

Irene rolled her eyes. "God, as soon as you saw me, your face lit up with this look of 'Behold, lesser beings, the work of my craftsmanship'. And when John walked into the room, the expression became even more prominent."

"I did no such thing."

"Whatever you say," she sang quietly. "But then how do you plead your case for why you've been eyeing the bump?"

"You make it a focal point."

"John and Mary seemed to be able to handle themselves."

"Biologically speaking, I am supposed to be drawn to it. It's my offspring in there. And why are you now trying to take off my pants here in their kitchen?"

"How long does Steak Diane take to prepare?"

"Too long for this to be conducive to any schedule I may have had."

Irene stared at him pointedly. "Are you telling me that you're interested in this right now?"

"I assure you, I am very much interested, but for the sake of making sure that dinner goes well and John and Mary can announce whatever news they have without the threat of being overshadowed by a raucous round of sex in the next room, could you please reign it in until after dinner?" he asked in a low voice.

"You purchased enough food for four people."

"Your last email was from an IP address that put you at the airport in Seattle. After a bit of investigation, I knew you were on your way. I actually expected you last night, when I purchased the ingredients for tonight's dinner."

"You know… you're making this very difficult for me."

"How so?"

"I am absolutely starving, and you're taunting me with food."

"Well, I would assume you're hungry. It appears as though the baby has grown quite a bit and now requires ample sustenance."

"Yes, she's growing like a weed. But that wasn't what I was talking about."

"She?"

"Oh, yes. This is your daughter in here."

He smiled gently. "And she's doing well?"

"Absolutely perfect. She has adorable hands and feet, based on what the scan showed."

"Is she keeping up, size wise?"

"Yes. She's a bit small, but I was small at birth, and based on your personal records that I acquired, you were too. It could very well be a genetic thing."

He nodded in understanding. "Well… I have to make dinner. Perhaps you could join me, after you put on sufficient clothing?" he suggested.

Irene glanced down at her body. "What's wrong with this?" she asked cheekily.

"Just as a matter of personal preference and the fact that you and I have not seen each other in a while, I'd rather that you cover up, especially since we have company."

"Are you jealous?" she crooned.

He didn't say anything, indicating that yes, he was jealous. When he finally did speak, he drew in a long breath. "I have a prominent role in this. You're off flitting around the world, sharing this experience with everyone except for me. I assumed that I would have had the opportunity to share this too. I mean, I know that I was the one who left, but you're still… you know…"

Irene had only been teasing when she asked, but now she realized that she had actually upset him. "Sherlock, she's fine. I've been making sure to do everything exactly as the doctors have instructed."

"It's not just that, Irene. What bothers me most about this is that you're not…." His voice faltered.

"I'm not what?"

He swallowed. "Here. It bothers me that you're not here. It bothers me that I have to be here and you have to be in Seattle and that this is your own experience and I don't get a chance to really be a part of it."

"But you knew that that was a possibility when we went into this."

Sherlock excused himself from the kitchen and walked out into the living room. Irene followed after him, buttoning up the rest of the shirt as much as she could. "Sherlock," she hissed. "What is wrong with you?"

John and Mary were in the living room. "Uh oh…" Mary murmured to John. "Should we leave?"

John shook his head. "It's our flat. Besides, let's watch this unfold," he murmured back.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his friend. "There's nothing to watch," he explained.

"I'll get the popcorn," Mary quipped as she stood up and walked over to the cupboard.

Irene examined the situation, focusing mostly on Sherlock. "Are you seriously upset that I'm in Seattle?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I'm not upset about you being in Seattle. I'm upset that you're treating your appearance as a thing that could be marketed to a very specific audience instead of what it actually is. What sort of lessons will our child be subjected to when she gets older and figures out what you do?" Sherlock asked.

"What makes you think that I'm still doing _that_?" Irene spat as she realized that she was referring to her previous profession.

"Irene… you do realize that I keep tabs on you, right?"

She stepped back and put her hands on her hips. "Of course. But you've never been jealous before."

"You've never been pregnant with my child before!" Sherlock roared. "And excuse me for being a little apprehensive about the fact that you were a dominatrix! Especially with the sort of dominatrix that you were! What happens if you're in serious danger? How would you escape if things got particularly dangerous? You can't jump out of windows!"

Mary's mouth opened. "Wait… you were a dom?"

Irene, Sherlock, and John all turned to Mary. "How do you think they met?" John sighed, quickly realizing how that sounded after saying it.

Mary's eyes nearly bugged out from her face. "Sherlock… you're into that sort of thing?"

Irene shook her head quickly. "Oh no… no… he was hired to take my phone from me. He was successful, but clearly, there was a remarkable amount of sexual tension that serves as subtext to our relationship."

Sherlock returned to the kitchen and started taking ingredients from the fridge and slammed each thing down onto the counter. Irene sighed and watched him angrily manhandle the food. "Sherlock, I'm not doing that anymore. You know for a fact that I work for an actual business."

He glanced up at her. "Please put on clothing."

"Why?"

"You're making us uncomfortable."

"I'm making you uncomfortable," Irene corrected him.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because there are other people around."

Irene was about to point out that John had seen her in far less clothing before, but quickly realized that she didn't want to throw John under the bus with Mary, who probably wouldn't be pleased with the knowledge that her husband had seen another woman naked under very questionable circumstances. "You are jealous."

He didn't answer her again. "Sherlock, it's okay to be jealous."

"Irene, please… just put on clothing. Anything."

She pursed her lips and then turned to walk downstairs to put on clothing. "We are not done with this conversation for now," she added calmly as she crossed through the threshold and was gone.

John glanced over at Sherlock, who was still visibly upset. "Are you going to go talk to her?"

"No. Now is not the time."

Mary stepped into the room. "Sherlock… she's hormonal… she's upset."

"She said that we are going to discuss this matter later, and I have learned that she is true to her word," Sherlock murmured. "And as a word of caution to John… in the coming months, don't throw the hormone word around when Mary is upset. It's not hormonal, it's deeper than that."

John and Mary gaped at him. "What?" Mary squeaked. "You know? Did John tell you?"

Sherlock glanced up. "In a sense."

John rolled his eyes. "How did you figure that one out?"

"You're grinning like a loon and overly attentive to Mary. Mary herself has physically started to show signs of pregnancy, but it's you who has started acting the role of an expectant parent, at least publicly."

"Right. So, with that logic, why aren't you jumping up and down about Irene being pregnant? Is it yours?"

"Yes."

"And how did you manage to pull that one off?"

"Oh, come on John… you're a medical doctor. You don't need me to walk you through the steps."

"But…"

"I'm sure Irene will spare no detail when she explains it you—because we all know that she will— so please just… I'm very happy for you two. Congratulations."

"It was an accident, wasn't it?" John asked.

Sherlock glowered at John but said nothing. Instead, he continued to prepare dinner, unpacking everything and setting everything in its respective spot. Irene quietly returned to the kitchen, wearing a pair of blue slacks, a light green t-shirt, and a cream-colored cardigan. She smiled at John and Mary before examining Sherlock's face. "I'm dressed," she informed him.

He glanced up at her and nodded. "Thank you," he murmured.

Irene washed her hands and wordlessly began helping Sherlock make dinner, the two working in tandem to prepare what John and Mary would later proclaim to be one of the best meals they had ever had.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: I'm really excited that I'm getting to know what languages people are reading this in! Definitely a diverse bunch! Thank you for your warm wishes regarding my finals. Another five days before I'm on break and done with finals for the quarter!

Enjoy the next chapter!

* * *

><p>Irene found Sherlock reading in his room that night, clearly still upset about the situation. "We're not in any danger, you know," she assured him as she walked into the room, closing the door behind her.<p>

He glanced up at her from over his book. "Are you still a dominatrix?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Just answer the question."

She sighed. "No, I'm not a dominatrix."

He snapped his book closed and tossed it aside. "Then what is it that you actually do? And why haven't you… become more maternal?"

"Sherlock, you know what I do. I work for a lingerie company. And what is wrong with being comfortable with my body?"

"I think you're still a dominatrix to a certain extent."

"Oh, that is the stupidest thing I've ever heard!"

"Really? Why are you still doing this sort of thing?"

"Sherlock, seducing people and fulfilling sexual fantasies is what I'm really good at. I didn't go to university to become a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher… I went to university and got a degree in psychology and that's about it. This is what I do. I don't know how to present myself any other way," she sighed.

"Well… I can think of a few ways."

"But this is what I like doing."

"So you like doing this? You like being this? What happens when you're not able to do this anymore?"

"I'll figure something out."

"Such as?"

"I don't know…"

"She needs to be your priority."

"She is."

"Then retire from being a seductress and put your energies elsewhere."

"Do you know how petty you sound?"

"I do not want her to be raised in that environment. If that is how her childhood is going to be, I want her here."

"So you can expose her to even more danger?"

"She'd be better off here."

"How?"

"Because at least then I'd know what she was being exposed to. Besides, her education would be much better here."

"I've already been looking at schools in Seattle. She's obviously going to be going to a private school."

"And what about universities?"

"Harvard or Stanford."

"Dull."

"Oh, and what do you suggest?"

"I happen to have a few people who owe me a few favors. There is one school in particular that she could get into simply because she is my child, and would ensure that she could get into Cambridge or Oxford by default, not to mention the schools that you mentioned."

"You've been looking at schools?" Irene asked in amazement.

"You seem to be under the impression that I'm a heartless prick to everyone," he muttered.

"You don't seem to be the sort of person who would look at schools."

"Why is that?"

"Because you're not that person. You're Sherlock Holmes, and babies aren't your forte."

"And how would you know that?"

"I just have a funny feeling about it."

"Maybe if you gave me a chance, you'd see that I'm not as detached as you'd like to make me out to be."

"You're serious about being a part of her life?"

"We made this decision together."

"I know… I just thought that maybe you'd get cold feet."

"That's a stupid assumption."

"I'm starting to realize that."

Sherlock brought his hand up to his face and brushed his curls off of his forehead. Irene sat down next to him. "And if it's any condolence, I didn't know that John and Mary were here. I'm sorry for giving you such a hard time about it. I didn't realize that this was a hot topic with you."

"I didn't realize it was a hot topic either, but here it is."

"So, what do you suggest we do?"

"Not sure."

"Okay," Irene murmured as she crawled into the bed next to Sherlock and fell asleep without bothering to take off her clothing.

The next morning, Irene woke earlier than Sherlock, finding that he had taken off her shoes and had put the covers over her. She padded quietly out of the bedroom and into the kitchen, only mildly surprised to see John was awake. "Good morning," she murmured as she helped herself to some orange juice in the fridge.

John hummed in reply, absorbed with the morning paper. Irene took her juice over to the table and sat down, resting her hand on her belly absently. "You have questions."

He hummed again, this time, almost laughingly. "Oh, that's an understatement."

"Getting pregnant wasn't an accident."

"What makes you say that?"

"Sherlock informed me that you are under the impression that the pregnancy was an accident. She's not an accident."

John glanced up from the paper. "She?"

Irene nodded. "She."

John gave a little smile. "Hard to believe that Sherlock's going to have a daughter."

"Hard to believe Sherlock's going to have a child," Irene corrected.

"That too."

John couldn't help but stare at the bump. "She's healthy?"

"She's doing very well."

"Are you still…?"

"A dominatrix? No. I wasn't expecting that you and Mary would show up with him. I was trying to surprise him."

"I don't know if that was a good idea, to be quite honest. I've never seen him so touchy about anything. But Mary wants to know how you prevented stretch marks."

Irene ignored John's remark about stretch marks. "We talked about it last night. I wasn't intending to do this, but I guess I was just testing the waters with him."

"I wouldn't do that. You know how he is about tests. He'll do something stupid to prove that he can exceed your expectations of him."

Irene nodded and took a sip of her orange juice. "It's strange, but I think he's more excited about the baby than I am. Don't get me wrong; I can hardly wait to meet her, but I think he's starting to become concerned about her wellbeing, seeing as how he's now here and I'm in Seattle."

"Oh, Seattle. I didn't expect it to be that far off."

"Has he seemed strange to you?" Irene asked him.

"Sherlock always seems strange to me."

"You know what I mean… anything out of the ordinary?"

"Well, now that you mention it, he's been looking for flats in London. I thought it was because he wanted to give us space, but I'm now realizing that the flats that he was looking at were close to really good schools. In fact… I don't know how I didn't see this one coming."

Mary walked into the room, kissing the top of John's head. "Good morning," she yawned as she shuffled over to the kitchen. "Did you sleep well, Irene?"

Irene nodded. "Yes… it's surprising how good of a pillow Sherlock is," she laughed.

Mary smiled. "Did you two work things out?"

"I think we made a good effort," Irene explained thoughtfully. "Obviously, we have a few matters to resolve regarding logistics, but otherwise, I think we're on the right path."

Sherlock walked into the kitchen, silently passing through to get to the coffeemaker, pouring himself some coffee. "Good morning!" Mary chirped.

"Good morning," he replied quietly as he sat down next to Irene.

"Did you sleep well?" Mary asked.

"Yes, thank you."

"Are we talking?" Irene asked him.

"I don't see why we wouldn't."

"I know, but you were very upset last night."

"Yes, and we discussed the situation, and I think we came to the beginning of a resolution."

Irene sighed and took another sip of her orange juice. "So… do you two have any names picked out yet?" Irene asked Mary and John, choosing to move away from conversation with Sherlock.

Mary looked to John, who looked at Mary. "Not yet. I was hoping that we could name the baby, if it's a girl, after my grandmother, Sophie, and if it's a boy, after John's father, George."

John cocked his head. "Mary, you know that my dad's name is Louis."

"What? I thought it was George!"

"That's my step-dad's name. My dad's name is Louis. And we're not using either of those names if it's a boy."

Mary pouted but let out a laugh quickly afterward. "Well… clearly we haven't started the process. But we've got time. You two, however, have only a few months! Have you two decided on a name?"

Irene shook her head. "We haven't discussed anything yet. But, it's a girl, so that narrows it down considerably. I've always loved the name Emily; my best friend when I was a child was named Emily."

Mary smiled. "What about you, Sherlock? Any name ideas?"

He glanced up from the paper and looked around with doe-like eyes. "Name ideas?" he echoed.

Mary nodded. "Any ideas for what to name your daughter?"

"Um… no."

"Oh come on, I'm sure you must like some name!" Mary urged.

John snorted. "I wouldn't put it past Sherlock to just call the baby 'Baby' for the first five years of her life."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't call you 'Flatmate'," he pointed out.

John nodded dismissively. "So, do you have any ideas?" Mary asked again.

Sherlock took a sip of his coffee. "Something normal," he finally answered. "None of the Holmesian names."

"Something normal?" Irene echoed. "Oh come on… you're far too eccentric to want the baby to have a normal name. What are some family names?"

"My mother's name is Sophelia."

"Sophelia?" John laughed.

"I dare you to laugh at the name in her presence. She's a rather intimidating figure."

"She must be if she was able to produce something like you," John scoffed.

"Okay, we're done," Sherlock snapped as he stood up from the table and left the kitchen.

Irene sighed. "Oh no… Sherlock! We were only teasing!" John called after him.

John looked at Irene, whose eyes were still fixed on the doorway that Sherlock had just exited through. "Is he coming back?"

"Give him time. He's very insecure about the baby right now. I don't think he was anticipating things to be like this."

"Like what?"

"I think he's fallen and he doesn't know how to reconcile falling."

"How has he fallen?" Mary asked.

John smiled. "I think he loves his daughter and he doesn't know how to express his affection in ways other than acting out."

Irene nodded. "What he said," she added.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: The typos are intentional. Hopefully I've done the dialogue justice.

* * *

><p>Irene was able to get her first experience in dealing with a sick child when Sherlock came down with a cold. He had gotten it from Mary, who as a kindergarten teacher, was exposed to plenty of illnesses that she brought back to John, who passed them along to Sherlock. Needless to say, Sherlock was not impressed.<p>

He came staggering out of the bedroom one morning, his eyes puffy and red, looking absolutely miserable. His hair was in every which direction, sticking up and curling wildly. He had had a rough night. "I'b 'ick…" he announced with a stuffy nose.

Irene had to bite back a smile as she tried to be supportive. "Oh no," she replied plaintively. "Well… I suppose it's back to bed for you."

"No…" he protested. "I'b fibe."

"Yes. Clearly you are fine."

He glared at her. "I 'ave to get to my catheth. Johnb needth me to 'elp 'im with the catheth."

"I think we need to have a new rule: no cases unless you can pronounce the word 'cases' without any speech impediment."

"Irebe, I'b fibe!"

She rolled her eyes. "I'll make you tea and toast. Sit down at the table."

Instead, he started walking out towards the front door to the flat. "Sherlock, you're not leaving the flat! You're sick! Get back in here."

"I'b fibe!" he insisted.

"No, you're not. Get back in here."

Sherlock's head was throbbing, especially in the sinus region. He absolutely detested Mary for giving this to him.

He stayed in the flat, but wandered around absently, almost as though he were drunk, looking for a way to rid himself of his ailment. He bugged Irene for a bit, trying to get her to fix him, but she only told him to sit down or go to bed. He wandered upstairs, but neither John nor Mary was in. He returned down to the 221C flat and wandered aimlessly through the rooms once again, resigned to the fact that he was sick and Irene wasn't going to let him leave.

Since he would not stay still long enough to possibly get some sleep, Irene sat him down in a kitchen chair in front of her and started to massage his head. She had figured out that if she wanted to turn him off, or at least turn him down, this was how she had to do it. "Come here," she had ordered when she had finally tired of his pathetic wandering.

Sherlock shuffled over to her and sat down in the chair that she indicated to. Irene stood directly in front of him. "Rest your head against me."

"Why?" he asked.

"Just do it," Irene sighed as she drew his head down to her belly and began to run her fingers through his hair.

"Ohb…" he sighed.

It didn't take long before Irene could tell that he was relaxing. She determined that he wasn't necessarily a large child, but rather, a giant cat. His nasally hums of contentment became deeper and longer as she kept going.

Suddenly, he flinched and pulled away from Irene, his brows furrowed as he stared at her belly. "Sh-the kicked mbe!" he exclaimed.

Irene snorted with laughter, laughing both at his reaction and how congested he was. "I don't blame her. You were probably being annoying."

"Really Irebe?" he asked, his facial expression neutralizing as he eyed her questioningly. "You thibk thab thith ith helpful right bow?"

She stuck her tongue out at him and brought his head back down to rest against her. "You can talk to her. She seems to like it when people talk in the general proximity to her."

"'Ow can you tell?"

"I think she will have your deduction skills. If she's really antsy in there, I start talking to her or start playing some music. It works like a charm. I hope that that will stay with her after she's born."

He was quiet, obviously analyzing this concept. "What thould I thay?" he finally asked.

"Anything really. It's just the noise that she likes."

"Well, if ith juth doise, why thould I talk?"

"Because you're her father and she should know your voice."

"But I 'ave a cold…"

"And I'm sure it will not be the last time. Your voice is your voice, and she'll recognize that once she's born."

"Doth shthe rethpond to obder noitheth?"

"What?" Irene laughed.

"Obder noitheth… does shthe rethpond to obder noitheth?"

"Other noises?"

He nodded against her, rubbing his forehead against her shirt. Irene patted his head. "Yes. She does, but I think she likes your voice."

He hummed contentedly, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. "You're like a cat," Irene informed him.

"I kndow."

She grabbed his hand and helped him up. "Come on… back to bed for you. I'll make you some tea and some toast, but you need to sleep. I think that this is why you're sick."

"I get ebdough thleep," he protested.

"Right… I'd buy your story if you weren't falling asleep against me."

"I'b bdot falling athleep againth you."

"Come on…" she urged as she moved behind him and started maneuvering him to the bedroom.

Upon lying down on the bed, he let out a sigh of relief and languidly got under the covers. Irene left him for a few minutes to get his tea and toast, but when she sat down on the bed next to him, he showed no interest in either of those things. Instead, he curled up against her, his head resting right below her collarbone. He wrapped his arm, to the best of his ability, around her waist and closed his eyes. "You're such a child," she murmured as she smoothed his hair down around his ear.

"I'b bdot…" he protested.

"Shh… go to sleep."

"Fibe."

Within minutes, his breathing changed, and he started snoring softly.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: So, I was going back through the previous chapters to run a continuity check for future chapters, and I realized that in the last chapter, I wrote that Mary is a kindergarten teacher. I don't know if this simply an American thing, but if it is, kindergarteners are typically 4-6 years in age. Clearly... I need to look over my details better. *facepalm*

Anyway, I'm really enjoying learning what languages people are reading this in, or their native languages!

Enjoy the next chapter! It's a long one!

* * *

><p>Two days before Irene was set to head back to Seattle, she woke up with a searing pain going through her back and abdomen. It took her a moment to figure out what this might be, but as soon as she was able to get a sense of what was going on, she woke Sherlock up. "Sherlock… wake up. I think I'm in labor," she hissed in a terrified tone.<p>

Sherlock took a moment to fully process what she was saying, but as soon as he did, he leaped out of bed and hastily got dressed. He threw Irene a few pieces of clothing that she had draped across the footboard and after making sure that he had grabbed his phone and his keys, he grabbed their coats and ushered Irene out of the flat.

An hour later, John was at the hospital with them, sitting next to Sherlock in the room where they had Irene. She had gone into preterm labor, but they had caught it early enough so that they could stop the progression of labor. Unfortunately, per the doctor's orders, Irene was to be put on bed-rest and consequently, could not go back to Seattle. "What am I going to tell my boss?" Irene asked Sherlock worriedly.

"You need to stay relaxed. The doctor said that if you get too stressed out, you're probably going to go into labor again."

"Sherlock, there is a remarkable amount of stress in my life at this moment. That's not going away. It would help me be less stressed, however, if you were to simply answer my question."

Sherlock pulled a hand through his hair and shook his head. "I don't know, Irene. Is there some way you could possibly phone it in for the next few months?"

"Phone it in?" she echoed. "Sherlock… I work in a fashion studio, helping to design clothing."

"Right. Couldn't you just get trends and design from London, whilst in bed?"

"No, Sherlock. I make the physical prototypes of garments."

John glanced up. "I didn't know that was what you do. How do you go from your former profession to that?"

"I worked in the costume department of the National Theatre while I was at university," she explained. "But that's beside the point. I can't just phone it in, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry Irene, but I genuinely have no idea what to tell you. The only thing I could think of in order to help is to inform your employer of the situation and explain that you will not likely be back for another five or six months, depending on your health and the health of the child."

"I'm stuck here for five or six months?" Irene asked flatly, staring Sherlock down with a death glare.

"This is what happens when you travel while pregnant. Things like this happen."

"How was I supposed to know that this was going to happen?"

"Guys, Irene's blood pressure is rising. You need to tone it down a bit. She's not out of the woods yet, and as excited as I am to meet your daughter, I would like to meet her when she's not the size of my hand," John interjected. "Why don't you two talk about names?"

"That hasn't ended well any of the times that we have tried," Sherlock explained. "We have come to the conclusion that we are not going to discuss names until after she is born."

"Well, he came to that conclusion, but considering how stubborn he is, there's no point in trying to convince him otherwise," Irene sighed.

John watched the monitor hooked up to Irene and the baby like a hawk, knowing the exact numbers that Irene and the baby should be at in order for the chances of Irene having a premature delivery to decrease substantially. He took it upon himself to make sure that Irene stayed calm and Sherlock didn't antagonize her. Fortunately, Sherlock and Irene both behaved, so his intervention wasn't really necessary.

The following afternoon, Irene was discharged from the hospital, sent back to the flat, where she began the unexpected prolonged stay with Sherlock. In the following days, Sherlock would begin the process of moving from the 221C flat to another flat, about two blocks east of Baker Street. No one, other than Mrs. Hudson, had been aware that he was planning on moving, so this was a rather unpleasant surprise.

But, as Sherlock later explained, he was ready to move out and allow John and Mary the privacy of their own flat with their new family. However, what Sherlock actually meant that _he _was ready to move out and have the privacy of _his_ own flat with _his_ own new family. But, of course, this was all subtext that didn't need to be explicitly stated, but was implicitly understood.

Meanwhile, Irene was losing her mind by being confined to Sherlock's bed. The rest of the room had been slowly moved out to the new flat, so she spent her days staring at the wall, watching the progress of the move from under the covers of the bed. She had enjoyed this bed when she first arrived, but now, she was not pleased with the situation.

It was almost August when Irene really began to become restless. One afternoon, after spending the day reading parenting books and finishing up yet another to-do list, she heard the door open and felt a flood of relief, finally in the presence of another human being for the first time in about ten hours.

"Sherlock?" she called out, certain that he was back.

Mary walked into the room. "Nope. Just me. The boys will be back in a little while. How are you holding up?" Mary asked as she sat down next to Irene.

Mary set her bag down on the bed between Irene and herself. "I'm so bored," Irene groaned. "Plus, she's killing my bladder. I haven't been able to sleep, and I'm exhausted."

Mary smiled sympathetically, patting Irene's shoulder. "It will be over with soon," she assured her friend.

"I know…" Irene murmured wistfully.

"Can I join you here?" Mary asked.

"Sure," Irene answered.

Mary kicked off her shoes and pulled her legs up onto the bed. "I've been looking for baby names online," she explained. "I think I'm getting closer to coming up with names for the baby."

"Oh?"

"If it's a boy, I like the names Samuel and Nathaniel. John likes the name Spencer, but he wouldn't be opposed to naming the baby Edward. Eddie Watson… it's got a good ring to it, don't you think?"

Irene smiled. "Yes. Very masculine name."

Mary glanced down at Irene's lap. "Have you thought of names for her?"

Irene shook her head. "Sherlock hasn't really been helpful in that process. I think he just expects that she'll come out of the womb and tell us what her name is."

Mary giggled. "He's not really the typical sort of expectant father, is he?"

"I wouldn't expect him to be. Though, admittedly, he's doing much better than I was expecting. He tried putting together the cot last night. If I'm not mistaken, the assembly directions can still be found, stabbed into the wall by a screwdriver."

Mary's eyes widened. "Oh my… did he have John help him?"

"Don't even get me started with that," Irene sighed. "He absolutely refused to have anyone help him."

"He's a stubborn one, isn't he?"

Irene laughed. "How did you guess?"

"I'll have John come by and help. No need to have unnecessary holes in the wall. Can a picture be placed over the hole?"

"That's the fortunate part," Irene explained. "What's even better is that he doesn't rent, so there's no landlord to report to."

Mary pulled her laptop from her bag and opened it on her lap. "Have you gotten the nursery designed yet?"

Irene shrugged. "I'm not sure what the flat looks like, so no."

"You haven't seen the flat?"

"Bed-rest?"

"I know, but I thought Sherlock would have at least shown you pictures of it. It's absolutely gorgeous. Very spacious, very light. I don't know how he managed to find it, but it's a lovely flat. I'm a bit jealous, actually."

"Has everything been moved in? I haven't really been able to figure it out."

"Just the bedroom left to move now. I think they're moving everything in here tomorrow."

"Why wasn't I made aware of this?" Irene asked.

"I think they moved everything sooner than they anticipated."

Sure enough, Irene was displaced the following morning, as the last of the furniture and boxes were moved down to the new flat. Mary's description hadn't done justice in detailing what the flat actually looked like. Irene was blown away by how tidy and spacious this flat was. "How in the world did you manage to get this?" she later asked Sherlock.

"Someone owed me a favor."

"My god…" Irene murmured.

"Do you like it?"

She froze. It wasn't clear if this was for her or if it was for him, but she suddenly could see their daughter running around this flat. She could see a little, curly-haired girl growing up in this flat. This would be the first home their daughter would ever know.

"Dammit Sherlock," she hissed.

"What? What is wrong with it?" he asked worriedly.

She began to cry, which sent him into a greater panic. "What's wrong with the flat?" he cried.

"There's nothing wrong with it!" she sobbed. "That's the thing… there's nothing wrong with this. It's practically perfect…"

"So… you're crying because…?"

"I have to go back to Seattle."

He laughed. "Yes, I was hoping that would come up."

Irene blinked at him. "What?"

"You see, but you do not observe," Sherlock replied vaguely as he walked out of the room.

Mystified by this vague claim, Irene glanced around the flat and realized that her belongings where what furnished the flat. "Sherlock…"

"Yes?" he asked from the other room.

"How did you get my things here?"

"Pulled a few strings."

"How many strings did you pull, because everything is here…?"

"Well, Mycroft wasn't pleased to hear that you weren't dead—I wouldn't take it personally, he wasn't pleased to hear I was alive either—but he was able to have your entire house moved out here. The house is now open to be rented out, which I have taken care of, and you'll be pleased to know that your employer has agreed to move your duties to the London office."

"Sherlock… I don't think I want to live in London."

He stepped out from the other room and cocked her head at him. "Sorry?"

"I mean… this is all absolutely wonderful, but I'm not sure if London is safe for me."

"Oh, well, there is the matter of your safety. As it turns out, you mothering my child might be one of your better security strategies. Because you're now kin, Mycroft has implemented the proper protocol regarding your safety. Of course, your new identity and the related paperwork has yet to come in, but in a few days, you should be good to go."

"Why are you doing this?"

"I don't want her in Seattle."

"So you go and uproot my entire life again simply for your own personal gain?"

"You're safer here too."

"Prove it."

Almost as if this were well-rehearsed, Mycroft came walking through the front door. "Hello Brother…"

Irene let out a cry of alarm and Sherlock whipped his head around towards his brother. "How long have you been there?" he asked Mycroft.

"Followed you over. Mrs. Hudson reliably informed me that you were moved out of the flat."

"Right."

"Hello Irene. I see that Sherlock left out a few details about how pregnant you were."

"How far along did you think I was?"

"I was expecting only a few weeks. But, this is considerably more than a few weeks. When are you due?"

"In a few weeks," Irene replied flatly.

"Oh good. Mummy will be thrilled."

Sherlock paled. "She's here, isn't she?"

Mycroft smirked. "You think she'd miss the opportunity to meet her future daughter-in-law?"

"I don't recall there being any discussion of marriage," Sherlock pointed out.

"Darling, we both know that your resistance is futile," a woman's voice crooned from the hallway.

A platinum-blonde woman walked into the flat. She was wearing a cream-colored skirt-suit and black pumps. Her hair curled perfectly at her jawline, and her sharp blue eyes were large and bright. There was no denying that this was Sherlock's mother. She had the same cheekbones and the same slender frame as her younger son. "Hello, Mother," Sherlock said in a monotone voice.

"What sort of man fakes his own death?" Sophelia Holmes demanded.

"The same man who procreates with a woman who faked her own death?" Sherlock suggested sardonically. "Besides, it was in order to protect people."

Sophelia glanced over at Irene and made a face. "Yes. Well, we will address that… development… in a moment. But first: what on earth happened to you? Why are you so scrawny? Is she not feeding you well?"

"Irene is on bed-rest. And you know that I don't eat while I'm working on a case, Mother," he grimaced.

"She looks fine to me," Sophelia sniffed.

"Yes, well, she's already gone into labor once, and as you can imagine, that's not the preferred outcome."

Sophelia, bored of her younger son, turned her attention to Irene. Irene had never felt more uncomfortable in her life. Sophelia Holmes was glamorous, exactly the sort of woman that Irene had expected to be when she was older, and here Irene was, seven months pregnant, hair unkempt, wearing a pair of yoga pants, a chunky cardigan, and feeling so completely out of her element in what she presumed was her new home. "Adequate," Sophelia finally stated. "Strong genes."

"Mother."

"No… I'm not saying that she's bad. Of course, a woman in her condition is clearly different than a woman who isn't pregnant, so the appraisal process is significantly altered."

"I'm not something to be appraised," Irene protested.

"Irene, this is Sophelia Holmes. She really doesn't take anyone else's opinions into consideration. But, if it's any condolence, she's not actually appraising you in a monetary sense. Think of it as a way of judging pedigrees," Sherlock interjected.

"Pedigree?" Irene echoed. "As if I am a dog?"

Sherlock began to backpedal. "Um… no. That is not at all what I meant."

"Well. If we are dogs… you are very close to sleeping in the doghouse tonight."

Sherlock sighed and stared at his mother with a look of immense displeasure. "Why are you here?" he groaned.

"I haven't seen you in five years. I thought I went to your funeral. I thought I buried a husband and a son in the same year. And then your brother informed me that no, I only buried a husband and a box of ashes from a dog. But that wasn't all, oh no… that was not all. Then, your brother informed me that not only did I not bury a son, but the son that I thought I buried is alive and well, and has a child on the way with a woman whom I have neither met nor have approved."

"I don't need your approval, Mother," Sherlock growled.

"Clearly not."

"Don't make this about you."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not about you. This is my life, and this is how I have chosen to live it."

"Fine. That's lovely, but at what point were you going to inform me that I have a grandchild?"

"We were thinking a graduation announcement would suffice," Sherlock quipped.

Sophelia snorted and rolled her eyes. "Oh Lord, please have mercy on the woman and the child…"

"I can manage just fine, thank you," Irene interrupted. "Sophelia Holmes, it's a pleasure to finally see where he gets it from."

Irene stuck her hand out to shake Sophelia's hand. Sophelia eyed Irene's alabaster hands warily, examining the bone structure of her hand and arm. Sophelia's eyes traveled the length of Irene's arm, passing over her shoulders, her chest, her neck, her jaw, her cheeks, her nose, eyes, hair, back to her nose, past her chin, down from her breasts to the protrusion settled between Irene's hips.

Sophelia looked back to Irene's eyes and smiled. "It's a girl, isn't it?" she asked.

Irene tilted her head and retracted her hand. "Sorry?"

"It's a girl; the baby is a girl?"

"Yes. How did you… you know what, never mind."

"Genetic patterns in the Holmes lineage," Sherlock interjected. "Every other generation produces a surplus of one gender over the other. Since my generation produced more males, keeping with the pattern, this generation would be predominantly female."

"She will be brilliant," Sophelia asserted. "There's no doubt that she will have her father's intelligence. And based on your appearance, she will certainly be blessed in her physical characteristics."

"Names?" Mycroft asked.

"No," Sherlock asked. "Why are you two here anyway?"

"Is it suddenly a crime to want to come and see you?" Sophelia asked her son innocently.

"No… that's too simple. There has to be something else," Sherlock murmured.

Sophelia cocked her head innocently. Irene sat down on the couch behind her and let out a soft sigh. She kicked off her shoes and crossed her arms across her chest. "That's not a difficult one to figure out," Irene remarked. "It's obvious what they're trying to do."

Sherlock glanced down at her. His mental processes played out on his face and through his body language as he turned his attention from Irene to his mother and brother. "You already know Irene, Mycroft; and Mother, I don't understand your obsession with wanting to know every minute detail of my life."

"It's my job," Sophelia sniffed.

Mycroft smirked. "I wasn't convinced that you were actually able to procreate."

Sherlock scowled at Mycroft. Irene recognized this as a perfect time to make Mycroft slightly uncomfortable. "Oh, let me assure you, Mr. Holmes, your brother certainly isn't The Virgin anymore, but I'm not sure if you've overcome your nickname. Though, I'm not confident that you would be able to shake that nickname off quite as effectively as Sherlock was able to."

Mycroft's smirk faded slightly as Sophelia's posture changed. "Oh, I like her," she murmured to Sherlock. "I can see the appeal."

"Good. Now, will you please leave?" Sherlock replied.

"Goodness, Sherlock… have you forgotten your manners? Aren't you going to offer us something to drink or be a good host?"

"No. In case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of moving in."

Sophelia ignored this; instead, she walked over and sat down next to Irene. "Now, as far as names go, nothing too out of the ordinary," she instructed.

Irene let out an involuntary laugh. "You aren't serious," she muttered.

"Sorry?"

"I'm getting advice on what to name my child from someone whose name is Sophelia and named her sons Mycroft and Sherlock… I'm sorry, but I'm not sure if you're a credible source."

"Oh please… no one actually calls me Sophelia. Everyone calls me Sophie. I request that you do the same. Besides… nothing like a good sounding board when it comes to naming a child."

"Mother, we are fine," Sherlock groaned. "Would you please leave?"

"No," Sophie answered. "I would like to get to know the mother of your child."

"Can you get to know her later? You know… when we're not trying to move in?" Sherlock whined exasperatedly.

"What is wrong with now?"

"I don't want you two here!" he finally exclaimed. "I don't want anyone else here. I'm in the process of trying to explain to Irene why she should stay here and not go back to Seattle, and you two are making it… fairly difficult!"

Sophie and Mycroft stared at Sherlock. "Well, I can think of one way to get Irene to stay," Sophie said quietly.

"How?" Sherlock asked slowly, after considering this point.

Sophie turned to Irene. "My son doesn't do domesticity. But the fact that he's gone out and gotten himself a mate, produced offspring, and has gotten a flat indicates that you're special. And it'd be a shame to waste that sort of effort. So, speaking on behalf of my emotionally stunted and socially incapacitated son, I think you're better off here than in Seattle. I don't care if they have good coffee. We are British, and so it's always better to stay in Britain if at all possible. I'd like it if my granddaughter was British as well. None of this American-British dual citizenship nonsense."

Irene bit her lip. "I'm actually from New Zealand…"

Sherlock made a noise in the corner, to which everyone reacted. "Oh… sorry. I was just reacting to Irene's remark. I've been trying to place her accent for the last five years."

Irene rolled her eyes and glanced back at Sophie. "I can't actually leave the country until after she is born since I'm on bed-rest, so she'll be British.

Sophie clapped her hands together and grinned. "Good. Well, now that we have that settled, we must start talking about the baptism and the engagement party."

"Mother…" Sherlock muttered warningly. "I told you… there will be no wedding. We can discuss baptizing the baby at a later date, but for now, you must go. You have overstayed your welcome."

Sophie stared at her son pointedly, but eventually rose from the couch and gave Irene a quick kiss on the cheek. "It was an absolute pleasure to finally meet you," Sophie assured Irene as she patted her belly. "I look forward to getting to know you better."

"Likewise," Irene murmured with a broad smile.

Mycroft stood back, observing the situation, strangely content with how his brother's life was appearing to unfold. He handed his mother her coat, and they left the flat, Sherlock quick on their heels like a collie, nipping at their ankles to herd them out. Just before they were completely gone, Sherlock stealthily swiped the key that Mycroft had used to let himself in.

After locking the door thoroughly, Sherlock stood against it and let out a laugh. "I am so sorry…" he breathed. "That shouldn't have happened for at least another two years…"

Irene laughed in response to Sherlock. "I don't mind. Your mother seems like a pleasant woman."

He shrugged. "You got her on a good day. For your sake, never try to interact with her when she's not having a good day. You'll probably end up crying."

Sherlock strode across the room and sat down on the couch next to Irene. "So, you don't want me to go back to Seattle?"

"I never actually wanted you in Seattle. It was nice having you in London. Seattle was just a good safety zone for you. But, as I have explained, you're safe here in London, perhaps safer here than in Seattle."

"Right then… so, where does that leave us?"

"What is your final decision?"

Irene looked around the room. "I think you made it for me."

"So, what does that mean?"

She drew in a long breath. "I guess I'll be staying here indefinitely."

"Except you're not really just staying here. You'll be living here."

"Right. I'll be living here."

"Good. I'm glad you're staying."

Irene was certain she'd never forget the smile that Sherlock had on his face when she finally agreed to stay with him. She didn't think she had ever seen such a beautiful expression on his immaculate face, and she was absolutely positive that this was not the last time she would see this side of Sherlock Holmes.


	9. Chapter 9

True to her word, Sophie made a concerted effort to get to know Irene better. In fact, she was so adamant about getting to know Irene better that she insisted that Irene come out to the family estate for a small lunch. Knowing full well that Sherlock wasn't about to throw Irene into the ring by herself, Sophie begrudgingly invited her son to join them as well.

They travelled to Sherlock's childhood home a few weeks later, following a long series of phone conversations and email threads between Sophie and Irene. Irene had taken a liking to Sophie, really starting to see the parallels between Sherlock's mother and herself. Irene was slightly surprised by how much she had in common with Sherlock's mother, but didn't think much of it; Sherlock obviously had a very homogenous group of people that he was comfortable socializing with, and it was to be expected that his mother would fit nicely into that group. After all, men tended to look for women that reminded them of their mothers.

The drive wasn't too long; two hours from London without traffic. Upon arriving at the house, Irene let out a squeak. "You grew up here?" she asked him.

"Yes. Why?"

"I knew you came from a moneyed family, but my god… I wasn't expecting this."

"You should have," he muttered. "You've met my mother."

He parked the car and hopped out from the driver's side. After helping Irene out of the car, they walked to the front entrance; Sherlock was stoic, while Irene was examining every detail with great interest and awe. Sherlock rang the doorbell, and within seconds, Sophie was at the door with a grin on her face. "Hello, hello!" she chirped as she drew both of them in for hugs.

Once inside, it was obvious that this was not going to be a small lunch. Throughout the house, noises of exuberant chatter and conversation could be heard. Sherlock stopped dead as he walked into his mother's home. "Mother… what is this?" he hissed as he turned around to glare at his mother. "You said this would be a small lunch."

Sophie walked past her son into the foyer and laughed. "Sherlock, this is small."

Irene joined Sherlock in the foyer and stared at him in terror. "Sherlock… wasn't this supposed to be a small lunch? There are at least thirty-five women here."

"Apparently, this is small," Sherlock murmured.

"Irene? Are you coming?" Sophie called out. "You must meet my friends!"

Sherlock grabbed Irene's wrist and gently pulled her into an adjacent room. "It's a trap," he whispered. "This is a trap for both of us. She's obviously told her socialite friends some fabricated story to make sure that she can save face. My educated guess is that she has informed her friends that we are married and have been traveling the world, excusing us of our absence from English society for the better part of the last four years."

"But wasn't it in the papers that you killed yourself?"

"Yes. These people would probably know that."

"So what does that mean?"

"My mother is an idiot."

"Sherlock!"

"Sorry," he grumbled. "Regardless, my mother clearly has some story cooked up to tell her friends. She's insane, Irene. Be aware of that."

"How similar to you is she?"

"You think I'm bad? Oh no... I'm sunshine and rainbows at my worst compared to her at her worst. I think it's the declining estrogen levels that came with menopause."

Irene rolled her eyes. "So, what should we do?"

"Be flexible. This will be a minefield, no doubt."

"Why would she say that we're married? Has she seen us?" Irene asked quietly.

"Apparently Mycroft left out some details."

"What are we supposed to do?"

"Take it in stride. She's testing us."

"Why would she test us?"

"Oh come on… you know the answer to that one."

"Sherlock… I'm serious… what have we walked into?"

He stuck his head out into the foyer to see if he could draw any conclusions from what he saw. He stepped back in and braced Irene by her shoulders. "Baby shower. Mother is thrilled that she's going to have a granddaughter, so she is making sure to take every opportunity to show her off. I have no doubt that she's going to try to breed the baby into being another socialite for her little posse. You're going to have to resist the pull, because she's going to pull you in too. It's inevitable."

"You're acting like this is horrible."

"If you become… one of them… I will take the baby and I will leave."

Irene rolled her eyes. "Don't be such a drama queen. It's not that bad."

"Don't underestimate her. And please, for all that is holy and good in the world, do not fall to her and her conniving ways. I despised my childhood because of this, and I don't want her to have to experience that."

Irene's eyes widened slightly. "Okay. I'll do my best. But seriously… if you try to take this child away from me, I will have your head. Do you understand that?" she growled.

"I'm glad to see we have a mutual agreement then," he answered as he exhaled and glanced down at her hand.

She was wearing several rings on her right hand. He took the one that looked most like a wedding ring and slid it off of her right hand and took her left hand. "With this, I thee wed, but only in appearance only because it gives me great joy to annoy my mother with such things," he muttered.

"Ooh… you make it so romantic," she laughed.

Sherlock was concerned with how well things were going after they joined the party. He and Irene acted according to Sophie's wishes, making polite small talk to anyone whom seemed interested in them, which was basically everyone. Sophie had gone around introducing Irene as Sherlock's wife, as they had predicted, while Sherlock and Irene faked smiles until their faces hurt. Much to his chagrin, Sherlock had been correct about this event being a baby shower.

About two hours into their stay, Irene pulled Sherlock aside after about an hour. "Sherlock… we have to leave."

"Why?"

"I know some of these women."

"So? The Queen knows some of these women. And as I have gathered, you and the Queen apparently run in the same social circles. It's to be expected."

"No… Sherlock… you aren't listening to me. I _know_ some of these women."

He realized what she meant and stared at her with a look of horror on his face. "As in, you know what they like?"

She nodded silently. "I think we can safely say that your mother is not going to try to make me into a socialite if she catches wind of this."

Sherlock shook his head. "No… it will give her even more motivation to do so. She'll use you as blackmail if she finds out about this. You'll be the ultimate weapon. Oh, this is extremely not good."

"I know…" Irene replied.

Sophie appeared in the doorway. "What are you two lovebirds whispering about in the corner?"

Irene and Sherlock must have looked like deer caught in the headlights based on the expression Sophie had on her face. "What?" Sophie asked, her tone less chipper as it had been before. "Is something wrong?"

Sherlock nodded, quickly adopting a different persona. "It appears as though Irene has gone into labor," he lied. "It's been lovely visiting, but we must leave immediately. Come along Irene… better get you to the hospital."

As they walked out of the house and out to the car, Irene played the role perfectly, cradling her abdomen and leaning on Sherlock until they were inside and the ignition was engaged. "How did you know?" she asked him.

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at her. "Sorry?"

"How did you know that I'm in labor?"

His face blanched. "I didn't."

"Oh."

She turned to face the windshield. "When were you going to mention that you were in labor?"

"I was hoping it was false labor. But I've been having contractions all day, without any easing up."

Sherlock muttered a string of curse words. "See, this is why we shouldn't have come out here today. You should be back at home, on bed rest. I am going to have some words for Mother when I see her next…" he growled as he slammed the car into drive and they rode out of the main driveway.

"Well… maybe you should be nice to her when you talk to her again. I mean…"

"Irene. That was an absolute disaster! You've seen some of those women in very intimate situations, and here, my mother is meddling in things that she shouldn't meddle in!"

"She's excited about becoming a grandmother. I mean, it's obvious that she worships the ground that you and Mycroft walk on, so any offspring that may come from either of her boys will be just as sacred. There's nothing wrong with an older woman, who has reared her children and has buried a husband, being excited about grandbabies."

Sherlock was silent. "I don't want her living that life. I want her seeing the real world, seeing London for what it is, not for the hypostasized version of the world we live in."

"She's going to get that if she goes to the schools that you're looking at."

"I know, but she needs to be able to have the balance of our London and that London, and if Mother gets ahold of her and starts priming her for the life of a socialite, she's only going to grow up to be some inane fool when she could grow up to be something absolutely remarkable."

"What makes you think that she wouldn't grow up to be something absolutely remarkable if she were to be exposed to your mother's will?"

He snorted. "My mother graduated the top of her class from medical school, made it through her internship and residency, and was en route to becoming one of the finest cardiothoracic surgeons in Britain when she met my father. They got married a year later, at which point, she had completely discarded any aspiration to keep along the path she had planned out for herself. My mother is living proof that you can't be both."

"Isn't it at all possible that maybe she wanted to be a wife and mother instead of being a doctor? Maybe she got a taste of domesticity and decided that this was what made her happy?"

"It's possible, but it's difficult not to grieve over what she could have been."

"That may be, but you can't discredit what your mother managed to create because she didn't become a brilliant cardiothoracic surgeon. She managed to raise two successful sons and was married for almost forty-seven years. She's a philanthropist, and happens to seem like a very family-oriented woman. Personally, I wouldn't mind if she were involved in the baby's life. Another pair of hands wouldn't be a bad thing to have."

"Irene, I don't think you're listening to me."

"I hear you loud and clear. And yes, it's disappointing that your mother decided to take a different route than you would have hoped for her, but looking back, how would your childhood have been different?"

"Less coddling."

"So you could have ended up being even more hopeless in social interactions? Less of a human? Believe me, Sherlock: you needed your mother when you were young. I'd hate to imagine the man you would be if you hadn't had her there."

Sherlock did not reply; instead, he focused on the road and tried to remember where the closest hospital was. Irene stared out the window, occasionally letting out a deep breath. Sherlock took this as an indication that she was having contractions, and after three times of it happening, he was able to catch the pattern. "They are four minutes apart," he stated blatantly.

"Sorry?" Irene asked him, coming out of her reverie.

"The contractions are now four minutes apart. Why didn't you think to mention this sooner? You've obviously been in labor for some time."

"Look, I know I screwed up. I was just hoping that they would go away like they have in the past."

"You've had contractions before?"

"Yes, but they've been the Braxton-Hicks ones."

"Irene… why haven't you told me that? That seems a bit important."

"I didn't want you to freak out and start jumping to conclusions when there weren't conclusions to jump to."

He shifted in his seat and gripped the steering wheel even tighter than he already was. His knuckles went white, and Irene knew that he was taking it upon himself that she hadn't mentioned the Braxton Hicks contractions before. "See?" she hummed. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. You're starting to shut down."

"Irene… let's just not talk about this."

"Oh good. Now we're going to have an argument about this. That will be good for the progression of the labor."

He let out a deep sigh and stretched his hands on top of the steering wheel. "I understand why you would refrain from telling me things like this, but my worry is that you are going to continue to withhold information from me when she's born. What if something is wrong with her health, and you don't tell me, and something happens because I don't know, for example, that she has an allergy, or has an injury because she fell down or something? What happens when she is older, and she's started school and I don't know a particular process that works and a large issue arises because of my ignorance?"

"Well, obviously, if she has an allergy, you would be made aware of that. But this is different, Sherlock. Right now, I'm the only one who can really be her parent. It's difficult for you to make decisions for her because she's still in me. And as her only really effective parent, I made a decision that ultimately benefited her in the long run, because quite honestly, I need you to remain levelheaded. If you lose your levelheadedness, we're at a disadvantage, as seen right now, because I'm absolutely certain that you're not as focused on your driving."

"Can you promise me one thing, Irene?" he asked her quietly.

"What's that?"

"Once she's born, can we make a point of informing the other of her progress and what she's doing at any particular point in time? I don't like the feeling of not knowing what is going on, and I feel that if I am going to be an effective parent, I need to know what is going on with my child."

"Of course," Irene answered as she reached over and patted his shoulder.

Sherlock seemed to relax after Irene's reassuring. For the remainder of the drive, they were silent. Upon arrival at the hospital, Sherlock glanced over at Irene. "Well, I suppose it's the end of the world as we know it," he remarked quietly as he put the car into park and hopped out of the car to hurry around to help Irene out.

If only they knew how true those words would be.


	10. Chapter 10

Upon entering the hospital and getting the preliminary paperwork filed, Irene was taken to an examination room, where it was determined that she was, in fact, in labor, and about seven centimeters dilated. Any effort to slow labor was not likely to work, so the baby was definitely going to be born within the next 48 hours.

But that was when things really became fun. Irene's labor progressed to the point that her water broke and the contractions became more intense. Because she had missed the point at which she could have been given an epidural, she was in for a very long and painful delivery.

And if that weren't enough, it was soon discovered that the baby wasn't in proper position to deliver naturally. Irene had been adamant about not having to have a Cesarean section unless absolutely necessary, so she began to panic when her doctor informed her of this. The doctors were going to try to see if they could reposition the baby so they could forgo the surgery, but they didn't guarantee that it would work. Sherlock decided it was time to call John for backup support. He stepped out into the hall and called John, but it went to voicemail.

As Sherlock hung up the phone, Sophie marched into the maternity wing, seeking out her son to reprimand him for his poor social behavior. As soon as she found him, she smirked. "Karma is a rather unfortunate soul, isn't it?" she sang out mockingly. "You should have known that I knew you were lying to come up with a reason to get out."

"Now is not the time, Mother," Sherlock growled. "The baby isn't in a good position to deliver naturally, so it's likely that Irene will have to have a Cesarean section, which was not what we were hoping for. And technically, we weren't lying."

"She'll be relieved she did when she doesn't have to go through the hell I had to go through when I had Mycroft. You were a much easier delivery."

"I was born via emergency Cesarean section because I was having heart trouble and I would have died if they didn't deliver. I was born two and a half months early. How is that an easier delivery?" Sherlock asked, aghast by his mother's remark.

Sophie waved him off. "I honestly was so drugged up when you were born, it didn't really matter until after you were born how you were born, just as long as you were in the hands of professionals who could take care of you."

"I'm touched by the sentiment," he sighed.

Sherlock rolled his phone around in his hand, waiting for John to call him back. John knew Irene's birth plan better than Sherlock (who had it memorized) did, and right now, Sherlock was spiraling into a panic. The baby wasn't due for another five weeks, and there were still a million things to do to before she was born. Sherlock felt absolutely helpless, and right now, he needed John to talk some sense into him to bring him into a place where he wasn't just a bump on a log.

Fortunately, the doctors were able to reposition the baby so that she could be delivered naturally. Irene calmed down considerably, and John called back, letting Sherlock know that he and Mary were on their way to the hospital and would be there in a few hours. From that point on, everything worked like clockwork.

The final stages of labor were intense, as to be expected, but six hours after arriving at the hospital, Irene delivered a very healthy little girl.

Fifteen minutes after she was born, Sherlock walked out of the delivery room, his head spinning and leading him absolutely nowhere. He knew that he had a huge grin plastered on his face and that he definitely looked the part of a new father; he felt like he was floating. John and Mary stood up. "So?" John asked expectantly.

"Five pounds, 6 ounces. Nineteen inches long; ten fingers, ten toes; absolutely no hair. She's perfect. Came out screaming," Sherlock informed them giddily.

Sophie jumped up and let out a cry. "Oh my goodness! I'm a grandmother!" she exclaimed as she rushed to hug her son. "Congratulations, darling."

John grinned at Sherlock. "I would never peg you to be a dad, but congratulations!" he said warmly as he cupped Sherlock's arm and gave it a hearty shake.

Mary held her arms open to hug Sherlock, pulling him into a warm embrace. "When do we get to meet this little girl?" she asked him.

"I'm going to be going back in right now, but you should be able to come into the room in about fifteen to twenty minutes."

When he returned to the room, Irene was sitting in the bed, cradling the tiny bundle, completely engrossed in her daughter. Sherlock padded into the room, apprehensive about the absence of the hospital staffers that had filled the room only ten minutes previous. "How is she?" he asked Irene.

"Absolutely perfect," Irene murmured as she brushed her daughter's cheek with her finger. "I think she's going to have your nose."

He laughed. "Well, it's fitting. You've always liked my nose."

"Yes I have," Irene agreed.

The sight of Irene and the baby seemed impossible; Sherlock had to keep telling himself that this was real. This wasn't a dream anymore. That was Irene and that was his daughter, and this was real life, and his world had just become extremely different than anything else that he had ever expected from life. Irene's voice brought him out of his reverie.

"What were the names of our children in your dream?"

He smiled. "Adele, Aveline, and Julian."

Irene mulled that thought. "Aveline?"

"Beautiful bird in French. I had a friend named Aveline. She died."

"And Adele?"

"Not sure. You liked the name."

"Adele Aveline?" Irene suggested.

He shook his head. "Doesn't sound right."

Irene glanced down at the baby. "What about both as her first name?"

"Didn't you just suggest that?"

"No… not really. Instead of two names, they become one. Adeline."

"Hmm… Adeline Adler-Holmes. Sounds precocious enough."

Irene laughed. "Are we hyphenating our names?"

"It's up to you."

"Adeline Adler sounds ridiculous. It really should just be your surname."

"Adeline Holmes. Okay. Does she need a middle name?"

"What were their middle names?"

"Sophelia and Aurora. We used Hamish for Julian's middle name."

"Hmm… what if we named her Adeline Hamish Holmes?"

"That's a ridiculous name."

"But no one else would have it."

"We would be giving our daughter a male middle name."

"So?"

"Isn't that a bit atypical?"

"How many people are named Sherlock?"

He sighed. "Two middle names?"

"Olivia?"

"Adeline Olivia Hamish Holmes?" Sherlock suggested.

"I like it."

"Me too."

"Poor thing," Irene laughed. "She just couldn't escape the curse of the Holmes family and their absurd names."

"You were the one who suggested it," Sherlock reminded her.

"I know. I was compelled by the power of the surname!" Irene joked.

By the time John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, and Sophie were able to come into the room, Sherlock had been able to hold his daughter for the first time. When everyone came in to meet the baby, Sherlock was still holding her, absolutely terrified that he was going to drop her.

Mrs. Hudson and Sophie both let out shrill cheers as soon as they saw the little girl. In true grandmotherly fashion, both wanted to hold the baby first, bickering over who would have the honors of getting to examine her little fingernails first. John started taking pictures of everyone while Mary fussed over Irene. Mycroft, however, stood in the corner, watching the menagerie unfold in front of him.

Eventually, Sherlock glanced up from the baby and made eye contact with Mycroft. "Do you want to hold her?" he asked quietly.

Mycroft furrowed his brow. "Before Mummy?"

"Yes. You're her uncle, and I anticipate that you are going to impose your will upon her regardless of any actions that Irene and I may take, so we might as well accept it at the beginning rather than prolonging the inevitable," Sherlock replied.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and held out his arms. Sophie let out a squawk of displeasure. "Why does he get to hold her before anyone else?"

"Because he's been the only one who hasn't been hovering around like a bunch of hungry sharks, eyeing their prey."

"We have not done that," Sophie protested.

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, what's done is done. He gets to hold her first."

"I thought I raised you better that this," Sophie sniffed.

"I'm not sure how your argument is relevant."

Sophie waved her son off and gravitated toward Mycroft and the baby. Scared of his mother, Mycroft forfeited his niece and stepped back into the corner. Sophie beamed as she held her granddaughter for the first time and began to babble at the baby in some incessant voice that made Sherlock cringe. "Mother… please… you're lowering her IQ with every syllable that you're uttering in that horrid voice."

"Hush," Sophie hissed. "I will talk to my granddaughter however I want."

Sophie turned her back to Sherlock, who then quietly held out his hands as if he were going to strangle his mother for being so difficult. All but Mrs. Hudson laughed at this gesture.

Mrs. Hudson was the next to hold the baby. She seemed the most comfortable holding the baby out of anyone in the room, and with good reason. Mrs. Hudson had raised four children and had seven grandchildren. She had insisted upon having an active role in the lives of all of her children and her grandchildren. It was obvious that Mrs. Hudson already considered herself a grandmother to this little girl, and though no one would ever admit it openly in the presence of Sophie, Mrs. Hudson would probably be the first one that Adeline acknowledged as her grandmother.

After Mrs. Hudson, Mary took Adeline. Unlike the other women, Mary hadn't raised any children, but was constantly surrounded by young children at work. As soon as she had Adeline in her arms, she smiled broadly at the little girl and examined her features quietly. It was obvious that Mary was imagining her own child and what she had to look forward to in a few months' time.

And then it was John's turn. "Hi gorgeous," he murmured as his friend's daughter was placed into his arms. "God, you're tiny."

Sherlock smiled proudly from the corner. John studied his best friend's daughter, looking for defining characteristics from both parents. "What is her name?" John asked, glancing up at her parents.

"Adeline Olivia Hamish Holmes," Irene replied with a smirk.

John furrowed his brow in confusion. "Wait… you used Hamish?"

"We thought it would be a nice reference," Sherlock explained.

"You named your daughter Adeline Olivia Hamish Holmes? You do realize that I was kidding about Hamish, right?"

"We thought it fit," Irene chirped. "Besides, there's nothing wrong with giving a girl a masculine middle name."

"But it's my middle name."

"Figured it would be easier to ask you to be godfather that way," Sherlock added.

"Oh," John murmured. "Seriously?"

"Of course. Who else would we ask?" Sherlock laughed.

John glanced over at Mycroft, who was still standing in the corner quietly. Sherlock shook his head. "If something happens to us, god forbid, she'll be in better hands with you two."

After looking to Mary for some sort of prompting, John grinned at Sherlock and Irene. "I'd love to be Adeline's godfather," he informed them.

"And Mary, of course, we are hoping will be her godmother," Sherlock stated as he nodded towards Mary.

Mary laughed. "Oh, without a doubt. We are so honored," she gushed as she walked over to John and tried to take the baby from him.

"Oi… you had your turn. It's my turn," John grumbled.

Because the doctors wanted to make sure that Adeline remained stable after being born five weeks early, they stayed an extra day at the hospital. By the time they returned back to the flat, it had been nearly four days since Sherlock and Irene had been home. Irene was exhausted, so she took a shower and went to bed, leaving Sherlock to look after Adeline. Knowing full well that he would need an expert (or at least someone better acquainted with small children) to consult with for this task, Sherlock called John.

Twenty minutes after getting Sherlock's call, John walked into the flat, after letting himself in with the spare key, and found Sherlock quietly pacing the length of the room, Adeline up against his shoulder. She had been crying, but seemed to be calm now. "Hi there," John murmured as soon as he saw Sherlock with the baby.

"Hello," Sherlock replied quietly. "She's awake, so no need to be too quiet."

John approached them and smiled at the baby, who stared at him with a look of confusion. She was very alert for being three days old, but John could understand why she was so bewildered. "How is Irene doing?"

"Asleep."

"And you're on baby-duty?"

"Irene expressed milk last night. If she hadn't, I would be of no use," Sherlock answered.

John chuckled. "Well, she doesn't seem to mind."

"No… but I do. I don't foresee much sleep in the near future."

"Oh, she'll get better. She's just trying to figure the world out."

Sherlock glanced down at his daughter, whose eyes were starting to close as she curled closer to his chest. "Well, if she's anything like her mother, she'll be fine. She'll be trouble, but she'll manage just fine."

"No boys until she's thirty?"

"Fifty."

John laughed. "I wouldn't put it past you two."

As absolutely ridiculous and bizarre as the situation was, John couldn't help but smile at the sight of Sherlock and his newborn daughter. No one had expected Sherlock to take so avidly to caring for an infant (no one had expected that Sherlock would want to be around a child, let alone gravitate towards one), and yet, here he was, slowly pacing around the room, cradling a tiny baby as if this was the thing everything in his life had been leading up to.

Adeline let out a little cry, causing Sherlock to go on full alert. He glanced down and started patting her back, trying to calm her down again. Eventually, she did quiet down, and fell asleep. Sherlock sighed in relief and walked over to the small cot they had set up in the living room, where he carefully placed her. After straightening up, he glanced over at John. "Any news on Madeleine?"

John nodded. "She should still be getting here tomorrow. I'm going to be fetching her from the airport. I was hoping to borrow your car, actually."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll make sure to give you the keys and the required supplies for Madeleine's return. She will be in the crate, no?"

"That's what the dog sitter told me."

"Yes, that sounds good. Thank you for getting this sorted for us. I know Irene appreciates it and I'm relieved that I don't have to figure this out on my own."

Sherlock's new way of dealing with people was still unfamiliar to John. John still hadn't gotten used to Sherlock being human and polite. Regardless of where it came from, John was glad that his friend was finally becoming a better human being. Maybe a baby and a relatively committed relationship wasn't such a bad thing for Sherlock.


	11. Chapter 11

A/N: Sorry for the wait. Finals happened, and then it was time to go home for break. I temporarily lost my train of thought with the story, but I've found my place again.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Sherlock had to make a nappy-run when Adeline was a week old. When he returned, he found Irene lying on the couch, staring up at the ceiling despondently. Madeleine was lying next to her protectively, pleased to be back with her owner. "Is everything okay?" he asked tentatively.<p>

Irene sighed. "I miss her," she answered.

"Who?"

Irene turned to look at him. "Addie. I miss being pregnant. I don't like that I don't know what she's doing anymore."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. Adeline was in the cot next to the kitchen, asleep. "Of course you know what she's doing. Right now, she's asleep."

Irene smiled wanly. "It's not that… I mean… I don't have control of where she is anymore. It was easy taking her with me, but now, she's independent of my body, and I miss that."

"You complained about the backaches and how fidgety she was."

"Of course. It wasn't always comfortable, but I still miss it."

Sherlock thought for a moment. He stepped into the kitchen and set the nappies down on the table and then moved over to the cot. He picked Adeline up from her cot, to which Irene made a noise of displeasure. "You're going to wake her up!" she hissed.

He ignored her protests, and carried Adeline over to Irene, placing the baby down on Irene's abdomen. "It might not be what you're talking about, but at least she's in the same general area," he explained.

Irene knew that she was going through a bout of postpartum depression and that Sherlock wasn't exactly socially adept enough to figure this one out. Fortunately, she was working with John, who had noticed that Irene had the symptoms of postpartum depression a few days earlier, so Sherlock's menial ability to help Irene through this wasn't going to impact her recovery. She was touched by his rather simple solution to Irene's problem, and quite honestly, she was glad to see that he was able to think quickly in response to emotions. She didn't think that he was able to react so quickly to reactions like this in the past.

But, ultimately, it was nice having Adeline sleeping on her instead of in a cot across the room. Sherlock didn't know it at the time, but he had just inadvertently started a new practice in the household: naptime on parents.

Irene's depression eventually decreased and she was finally deemed ready to go about six weeks after she had Adeline. Though she still talked to her psychiatrist on a weekly basis, wanting to take preventative measures in case it came back, things settled out nicely and they fell into a nice pattern. Adeline had some trouble sleeping in the beginning, but it was Sherlock who figured out that she didn't like being in the cot at night and slept better if she was in bed with them. Irene had originally protested this, but Sherlock had pointed out that it would make nighttime feedings a lot easier if she was only a matter of inches away from Irene, rather than a few feet away.

When Adeline celebrated her 10-week existence, Sherlock and Irene received a call from John informing them that Mary had gone into labor and that he would call when the baby was born. Colin William Hamish Watson was born two weeks early, weighing in at about nine pounds and was 21 inches long. Upon hearing this, Irene shuddered at the thought of delivering a child that was the size of Adeline at two and a half months old.

John, of course, was absolutely ecstatic about his son. When Sherlock and Irene arrived at the hospital, Adeline in tow, he practically thrust the baby into Sherlock's arms and started jumping for joy. Irene looked alarmed, Sherlock was startled by the sudden presence of a newborn that wasn't his own child in his arms, and Adeline yawned.

"What's his name?" Sherlock asked after congratulating John and Mary on their child.

"Colin William Hamish Watson," Mary answered.

Irene smiled. "Lovely name," she assured them.

She was standing near Sherlock, examining the small (actually quite large for a newborn) baby while holding Adeline. But, it was not Sherlock or Irene who had the most telling reaction to the baby. Adeline was thoroughly unimpressed with Colin; her general disinterest was most prominently observed when she sneezed on him. And thus started the very interesting dynamic between Adeline Holmes and Colin Watson.


	12. Chapter 12

The two kids continued to thrive in the following months. Adeline's hair grew in, becoming a mess of dark, luscious curls that quickly became the bane of Irene's existence. Colin, on the other hand, quickly seemed to grow out of the baby stage and became his own little person, seeming to best Adeline in every way. At only nine months old, Colin was walking around while Adeline was still crawling. "Is this normal?" Irene asked Sherlock, who was busy trying to make sure that Colin didn't get into any experiments.

They were babysitting Colin for the afternoon while John and Mary took a break and went out for lunch without the baby. They found that they had taken for granted that Adeline wasn't able to reach certain heights, so they hadn't completely baby-proofed the flat yet.

Sherlock picked Colin up and carried him away from the kitchen so he could quickly create a makeshift barrier between the kitchen and the living room. "I don't know," he answered absently.

"I'm really concerned that Addie's falling behind," Irene explained. "I mean, she's four pounds smaller than Colin and she's not walking."

"He's also a male infant, which means that he requires more sustenance than Addie. The walking might just be because of the environment he's in."

Irene frowned in concern as she glanced over at Adeline, who was quietly playing with a stuffed-toy replica of the cold virus. She absolutely loved the cold-virus toy; it was one of the few toys that they had lying around the flat for her. Everything else she played with had been fashioned out of other odd objects that Sherlock had thought was interesting and appropriate for Adeline to play with. (Irene, of course, had the final say in what she played with, because not everything Sherlock provided for her to play with was age appropriate.)

"What if something is wrong with her, Sherlock?" Irene asked quietly. "I mean… she's not a social child like Colin."

"Look at Colin's parents. They're both very social people. You and I are not what you would call social. That's why I've arranged to have Colin come over for play dates with Addie."

"I don't think they're working."

"Well, give her some time. She's obviously intelligent; maybe social interactions aren't her thing."

"You were like this when you were younger, weren't you?" Irene asked.

Sherlock snorted. "I'm still like this."

She smiled faintly, still looking at Adeline with concern. Sherlock sighed. "Irene, John has assured us plenty of times that Addie is healthy and well-adjusted. She'll do everything in her own time and it doesn't help anyone to fuss over something that isn't an issue right now. Her motor skills are progressing, and she's crawling. She's fine for her age."

"I suppose I'm worried because I expected her to be the advanced one," Irene admitted sheepishly.

"That's understandable. I had the same expectation. But, maybe Colin is a good influence on her. If she sees him walking, maybe she'll follow suit."

Irene frowned in contemplation. "Are you sure?"

"Irene… there's no use in worrying about this right at this moment. If things don't change soon, then we'll worry about it. But for now, she's fine. I mean, look at her motor skills!"

Irene glanced down at Adeline, who was busy untying Irene's shoes. "Sherlock, we can't just keep focusing on her motor skills and her ability to cause trouble," Irene sighed.

"I can assure you: the moment that Addie starts walking, she will be running circles around Colin," he laughed. "She is your daughter, after all."

This made Irene smile. Adeline stood up from the floor, using her mother's legs as a brace. The little girl's curls somehow managed to stand straight up from the top of her head. She made a squeaking noise as she bounced up and down against her mother, grinning at her mother for no apparent reason.

Colin toddled over to Adeline and stared at her inquisitively. He took the toy from Adeline's hand, deciding that he simply had to have control of the cold virus toy. Adeline didn't take nicely to this; she glared at him and fulfilling Sherlock's prophecy, grabbed it back from Colin and pushed him to the ground. "She'll be fine," Sherlock called from the kitchen, having seen Adeline's actions.

Irene glanced down at her daughter. "Addie, that wasn't very nice. You should share your toys with Colin."

Adeline looked at her mother with a look of amusement, as if she thought her mother was insane for suggesting such a thought. Instead of sharing her toy with Colin, she crawled away from him and played quietly in the corner. She may have been like her mother, but she was certainly like her father too: stubborn and didn't play well with others.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Okay, I'm so sorry for making you wait for an update. Spring Break actually ended up being a break from more than just school. It took me a while to get this chapter finished.

Enjoy this mildly-longer chapter!

* * *

><p>As it turned out, Irene didn't need to worry about Adeline not walking. Within a week, she was running around the flat, causing Madeleine much grief. From that point forward, it was difficult to see her as the tiny little baby that had been born a year previous. She was certainly becoming her own person, something that was both a blessing and a curse. It was a blessing for her parents, who were thrilled to see how their daughter would progress; it was a curse for Colin, who was now beginning to see the end of his dominance in their play-dates.<p>

They knew they really were screwed the moment Adeline started talking. She didn't simply start talking with a single word; instead, she explained to her father why she refused to take a bath before going to bed. When Irene later interrogated Sherlock about why Adeline had dirt on her and didn't appear to have had a bath, Sherlock informed Irene that their daughter was a genius with excellent debate skills. Irene, of course, didn't believe him, until a week later, when Adeline proceeded to have a four-minute argument with Sherlock about why carrots were dull.

It became obvious that to state that Sherlock adored his daughter was a gross understatement. Sherlock did not simply just adore Adeline, he had changed his world around to make sure that everything and anything could be attainable for Adeline. In the same, Irene became more and more important, and not simply because she was Adeline's mother. It became obvious to everyone (except for maybe Sherlock himself) that Sherlock was serious about these two ladies in his life.

As for John and Mary, they barely waited a year and a half before their second was on the way. Adam Truman Watson was born weeks after Colin turned three. As result, Mary asked if Irene could keep an eye on Colin one afternoon while she took Adam to the doctor for a checkup. Of course, Irene agreed.

The doorbell rang in the flat. Even though it was only by coincidence, Colin came running out from Adeline's room yelling. "Ahh! No Addie! No!"

John glanced down at his son, who was wearing what looked to be a tie, an apron, and a deerstalker. "Hi Colin… how was your afternoon?"

Adeline came marching out of the room, holding a foam sword and a glare that could kill. "Colin, I told you, I'm the hero. You're not the hero," she informed him with a strangely eloquent voice for a three year old.

Colin stuck his tongue out at Adeline. "Girls can't be heroes, Addie. That's the boy's job."

"Well, that's stupid. Anything you can do, I can do better."

Irene tried to stifle a laugh as she glanced over at John, who was doing similarly.

"No!" Colin exclaimed

"Watch."

Irene shook her head. "Addie… girls and boys can both be heroes. There's no need to do anything stupid to show Colin that. Let him learn that in his own time."

"Where is Sherlock?" John asked.

Adeline planted her fists on her hips and glanced around the flat. "Daddy?" she bellowed.

Sherlock came walking out from the kitchen. "Oh, I thought you were going to be here later on," he answered.

John shook his head. "This came for you. I don't know why it was delivered to Baker Street, but it was. I think you should look at it."

Sherlock took a thick envelope from John and examined it. It was unopened, but based on the look that John wore on his face, Sherlock knew that something wasn't exactly normal about this envelope. Irene even seemed to be concerned about the envelope. "They delivered it there?" she asked John.

"I would think that someone was bound to know that you moved," John sighed.

"I am registered at both addresses," Sherlock murmured as he busied himself with taking the documents out of the thick folder. "Oh…"

His eyes widened as he pulled the documents free from the envelope, instantly realizing what they were. "Irene… did you apply for a marriage license and then have me sign it whilst unaware of what I was doing?" he asked her.

Irene's eyes widened and she rushed over to see what he was looking at. "Oh my god…" she breathed. "Oh my god… oh my god. I can't be married!"

"Neither can I!" Sherlock exclaimed.

John stared at them with a quizzical expression on his face. "What is going on? Are you saying that neither of you applied for a marriage license?"

"Mother," Sherlock muttered. "She must have done this."

"How? Doesn't she need signatures and other information?"

"When you have Mycroft at your disposal, you don't need any of that," Irene sighed.

John started chuckling. "Why are you laughing?" Sherlock snapped.

"Because only you two would be able to get married without knowing it."

"And you find that humorous?"

He nodded. "Extremely. Congratulations."

"This is not something to congratulate us on! If anything, you should be congratulating Mother."

"You know what? That is an excellent idea. I'll go call her up and extend my congratulations. We can then discuss you and your insane life at great length."

"Knowing Mother…" Sherlock muttered.

After John and Colin left, Sherlock stood in the kitchen, poring over the documentation, trying to figure out how Mycroft (because he was definitely in on this) and his mother had managed to do this one. Irene walked in and laughed gently at how intensely he was staring at the paperwork. "I cannot believe her," Sherlock grumbled.

"Well, you should have seen this one coming," Irene reminded him.

"I knew she was insane, but I didn't expect this."

Irene sidled up next to Sherlock and rubbed his arm. "So… when do I get a ring?" she asked jokingly.

He exhaled deeply. "I'm sure you can improvise."

"Ooh, so romantic."

"Sorry. I don't do romantic."

She snorted. "I happen to know for a fact that that's not the case. What about last month?"

"You're bringing up our sex life at a time like this?"

"Sherlock… maybe being married isn't the worst thing in the world. I mean, there _are_ far worse things to be."

"Yes. Dead. Or working in a toll booth on the motorway."

"Strange how you put those two in the same category…"

He threw his hand into his hair and started pacing the room. "There must be more to this. There _has_ to be more to this. Why would it only be just the license?"

Sherlock flipped the envelope over and examined the front. After a moment of consideration, he brought the envelope up to his nose and sniffed it. His brows furrowed. "What?" Irene asked him.

"Mother's perfume. Chanel No. 5."

"You know Chanel?" Irene squeaked.

"I've lived with you for over three years."

"But to know Chanel No. 5 is pretty specific."

"Not really. Mother really uses far too much perfume."

Irene rolled her eyes. "What is the significance?"

"I presume we will find out within the next twenty-four hours. She must have some social function fast approaching and wishes to utilize us to her benefit."

It took twenty-three and a half hours before Sophie contacted her son and requested that he and Irene make the trip out to the Holmes family home. "Of course, Adeline is welcome to join you, but it really will only be you two who will be in need."

"Mother… what is this about?"

"Will you be able to be here tomorrow? It really is of the utmost importance that you two are here."

"Mother, Irene and I both have work."

"I know, darling, but this is more important. Also, are Irene's measurements still 33-26-35?"

"32-24-34," Sherlock snapped.

"Ooh… testy, are we?" Sophie laughed.

"Goodbye Mother," he sighed as he hung up.

Even though Sherlock wanted nothing more than to defy his mother and not show up at the house, he knew he would have hell to pay if he didn't. The next morning, they were on their way to his mother's home, Adeline in tow. When they arrived, Sherlock saw several vendor vans parked out in the main circle outside the front door, and instantly became suspicious. Irene remarked that they reminded her of wedding vendor vans.

They looked at each other with wide eyes and instantly came to the conclusion that they were walking into their own wedding. "No…" Irene sighed as she stepped out of the car and went to help Adeline out.

Sherlock gripped the steering wheel a little tighter than he should have, making his knuckles go ghastly white. "Don't go in there," he hissed.

"Sherlock…"

"It's a trap. Don't go in there."

"I'm sure it's not what we think it is."

"Those are wedding vendor trucks! How could it not be what we think it is?" he exclaimed.

"Look at what sort of trucks they are. That is a flower truck, the red one looks to be for a photographer, and the third looks like a seamstress' van."

"That doesn't mean anything."

"Come on…" Irene groaned as she closed the door and started for the home.

They walked into the home and saw that it was not a wedding, but instead, a photo-shoot for a wedding. "Wedding photos?" Irene asked.

Sophie strutted into the room and nodded. "Come along, you are late!"

An hour later, Irene and Sherlock were posing for the camera. "Why do we need wedding photos for a wedding that never existed?" Sherlock asked his mother.

"I'm having a bunch of friends over for a party, and they've been asking to see your wedding photos."

"So you've staged this so you can get photos."

"Exactly. Now, stand up straighter, Sherlock. And look like you actually like Irene. You currently look like she's the most repulsive thing in the world."

In actuality, Irene was not the most repulsive thing in the world. After being zipped, buttoned, and laced into the dress that Sophie had picked out for Irene, neither Sherlock nor Irene could deny that she looked good in it. It was fitting.

Despite the fact that the dress suited Irene, there had been some issue with getting Irene into the dress. Irene was in no way overweight, but the measurements that Sherlock had been so defensive about the previous day were incorrect. This, of course, caused a bit of a stir with Irene, who was meticulous about making sure she knew her weight and her measurements. She was aware of how unhealthy this could be, but after years of making her living by using her looks as her product, the habit hadn't completely fallen by the wayside.

Sherlock stood up straighter against Irene's body, glancing down at her with a smirk. "You're trying to figure out how many weeks it's been," he murmured.

"It's been ten."

"How did you manage to keep that one to yourself?"

"I wasn't sure; thought it might have been just one of those things."

"You work like a clock. And unless menopause has hit you early, the clock will only start acting up for one reason, and one reason only."

"Best case, we're at ten weeks."

He nodded. Irene glanced up at him. "Is this a good thing?"

"Sorry?"

"Are we pleased?"

"I don't know about you, but I find it rather fitting."

"Fitting?"

"You know… the shotgun wedding thing. We never seem to do things in the right order…"

Irene let out a guffaw and batted at him. "John and Mary will be pleased."

"Yes, John has been dropping hints—well, nagging is probably a better term— at me about it for a while."

"Mary hasn't been much better."

"And of course…" Sherlock murmured as he glanced over at his mother, his brother, and Adeline.

Irene hummed in agreement.

The photos turned out well. Sophie raved about how lovely the couple looked in their photos and made sure to adorn her house with the staged photos. Even though Sherlock would never admit it, he was happy that his mother was content with her photos. He actually liked having the photos of his family placed around her house, making it seem like there was some sort of normality in the Holmes family.

What was even more pleasing was the fact that there would soon be another Holmes to be displayed in Sophie's home.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: I'm sorry for my long hiatus; new quarter classes mean that there's a new beast to slay with trying to manage my time. As result, my focuses have been elsewhere and I haven't been able to allocate much time to working on the story. Additionally, I anticipate that the last few chapters will be up within the next few weeks, but they probably will not be very long.

Anyway, I hope that the chapter makes up for my absence. Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Charlotte Artemis Jean Holmes was born four days early on a frigid March morning. Much like her older sister, Charlotte was welcomed into the bizarre family that her parents had created for themselves. Adeline was thrilled about her little sister, almost instantly wanting to take Charlotte everywhere and anywhere she went. Sherlock and Irene had to explain to Adeline that Charlotte wasn't a toy and that she needed to be gentled with her younger sister.<p>

As soon as Charlotte started walking, there was no stopping the two Holmes sisters. Adeline was the wizened ringleader who capitalized on Charlotte's adoration while Charlotte was often made the scapegoat because she was the younger one who didn't understand what Adeline was doing and what consequences may come from their actions. Irene and Sherlock would argue that their daughters' personalities came from the other parent, but both knew that they both had equal part in creating their strong personalities.

As similar as the two girls are, they maintained their individuality, especially in their appearances. Adeline had inherited her parents' angular features and dark hair, while Charlotte's features were softer and she had dark auburn hair. Sherlock and Irene figured that Charlotte must have inherited Sophie's looks, because she did not look much like either of them, save for the eyes, which were undeniably Sherlock's.

The family of four settled into a nice pattern, especially when Adeline started school. Just when it seemed as though their family of four was complete, Fate reared her head and decided to add another Holmes to the bunch. He came in the form of an eight-pound baby boy with a full head of hair, named Julian Gregory Niles Holmes. Julian, as the baby of the family, was five years younger than Adeline and two years younger than Charlotte, but was probably the most mischievous of the three. There was no denying who his father was.

Sophie was thrilled to have three beautiful grandchildren, but it was clear that she favored Adeline over the other two. Adeline was her little protégé, the little project that she adopted as soon as Adeline was old enough to accompany her grandmother to her social events and serve as a good representation of the Holmes family. In fact, it was Sophie's tutelage of Adeline that brought Sophie and Irene closer together.

Julian served as the scrappy child who was always getting into trouble. He was more trouble than both of his sisters combined and required vigilant attention whenever there was anything to get into. Fortunately, he was blessed with an excellent sense of humor and his mother's ability to outwit most people. (That last bit wasn't a fortunate trait for him to have until he was older and outgrown his incessant need to cause trouble.)

Despite having a strong and bubbly personality when she was younger, Charlotte outgrew this and became more withdrawn. Charlotte was not one to talk; instead, she sat back and studied everything, something that Sherlock took great interest in. He recognized that his younger daughter was exactly as he was, and knew how treacherous things could be for her if she was not guided in the right direction. The thought of any of his children following in his footsteps petrified Sherlock, who knew the path like the back of his hand.

Regardless, the Holmes brood was a force to be reckoned with. Three whip-smart children and their extremely capable parents meant that many of the other families at the children's school were often envious and rather hostile towards the Holmes, while the teachers fawned over the children and urged Irene and Sherlock to explain how they were able to produce such advanced children.

And thus, Irene and Sherlock sat back and watched their children grow into fully-fledged persons.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Hello again... sorry for such a long wait. It's been really tricky trying to write the rest of this, simply because I'm having trouble with plot and a lot of stuff has come up in my personal life that I have been working through. Regardless, I think I have come up with the plot for the last few chapters. I anticipate there being four more chapters.

Someone suggested that I expound on the childhoods of the kids, but I have decided to tweak that a bit. I would like to develop the characters a little bit, but I don't want to be too redundant, because I feel like I could easily slip into rewriting For You and For Myself, and that's a bit dull. Don't worry, I will definitely focus on each of the kids, but I don't expect to write much about their childhoods.

One last thing before I'll stop with my rambling: It's been about ten years since the last chapter, I believe. Adeline is almost 18, Charlotte is 15, and Julian is 13.

* * *

><p>Adeline marched through the door and threw her backpack down on the floor as she made a beeline for the couch. "Cole is such a piece of work!" she exclaimed.<p>

Irene stuck her head out from the kitchen. "Well, hello to you too!" she chimed.

"Mum, why are boys so stupid?"

"Addie, you should know the answer to that one."

Sherlock strode out from the kitchen, standing next to Irene. "Who is Cole?"

Adeline cocked her head. "Dad… Cole McKinnon?"

Sherlock shrugged. "The name doesn't ring a bell."

"Cole! The guy I've been dating for a year and a half?" Adeline squeaked.

Sherlock shrugged again. "Cole McKinnon?" he asked.

"Yes Dad. Cole McKinnon. You seriously don't know that name?"

"No, Addie, I have no recollection of anyone named Cole McKinnon, let alone that you have been in a relationship with him for the last year and a half. I was under the impression that you and Colin were in a relationship."

Adeline pulled a face. "Oh god… no. That's Charlie's territory."

Sherlock paled. "Wait… what about Charlie?"

Irene snorted with laughter. "Sherlock… Charlie and Colin have been dating for a few months now."

Sherlock whipped his head around to look at Irene, his eyes wide with terror. "Colin is three years older than Charlotte… who thought that was a good idea?"

"She asked you about it when they started dating. You said you were fine with the idea."

"I thought she was dating someone else!"

"How many Colin Watsons do you know?"

Sherlock and Irene certainly had their hands full with their three fully-fledged children. Adeline was nearing eighteen, Charlotte not too far behind at fifteen, and the baby of the family, Julian, who was thirteen. Three teenagers in one flat. No wonder Irene and Sherlock were exhausted.

Julian walked into the room, smirking at his sisters. "Which one of you got in trouble for your boyfriends?"

"Neither of us got in trouble for our boyfriends," Charlotte sniffed. "But, did you tell Mum and Dad about your girlfriend?"

Julian paled. "She's not my girlfriend," he stammered.

Adeline snorted. "Oh, so you go around sucking the lungs out of every girl you meet, Ian?" she laughed.

"At least my person is my age!"

"Cole is my age. He's just taking his gap year already."

"Oh, and where does he go?"

"He's heading off to Stanford," she informed her brother curtly.

"Cole…" Sherlock muttered.

"Yes, Dad. That's his name."

His eyes flicked over to his eldest daughter. "Last name?"

"McKinnon. Oh god… you're going to run a search on him, aren't you?" she squeaked in horror.

Sherlock shook his head. "But that is a good idea," Irene interjected. "I'll go call Greg right now."

"Mum…" Adeline sighed.

"Cole McKinnon. What is he studying?"

"I think he's studying law."

Sherlock's face contorted into an involuntary smirk. Irene noticed this. "What are you smirking about?" she asked him.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Not yet, at least. Addie, I'd like to meet him. And Ian… I think you and your mother need to have a little chat about your activities. And Charlie… tell Colin I'd like to have a word."

It wasn't too unusual for Sherlock to make his children gape at him, but it was a rare occasion when he was able to make all three of them gape at him at the same time. One time, Irene had captured it on camera and they had used the photo for their Christmas cards.

Later on that evening, Irene found Sherlock in bed, reading through some case files that Lestrade had left for him. "What was that earlier? Do you know Cole?"

He glanced over at her. "Do you remember that dream I told you about right after I came to Seattle?"

She nodded slowly. "I'm a little concerned."

"Don't be. It's nothing bad. I just want to meet him and see if this was something I foresaw in the dream."

"He was in the dream?"

"I need to meet him to make sure."

"Why was he in the dream?"

"He married our daughter."

Irene's eyes widened, but quickly her face relaxed into a warm smile. "She really cares for him, Sherlock. I could see it happening."

"I need to meet him to be sure. But until then, don't tell Addie. I'm not ready to marry any of the kids off yet."

Irene laughed. Knowing her eldest daughter, Irene wouldn't put it past Adeline to want to go running off to get married. She was a hopeless romantic, and unfortunately, she was still extremely naïve. For some reason, she was the most naïve of her children; Adeline was certainly not Charlotte, who was the brain of the family (putting her father to shame). Julian was understandably naïve to some things, but Irene couldn't really figure out why Adeline, as the oldest, was still largely unaware of some of the things that the other two kids were very much aware of.

As she slipped into bed next to Sherlock, Irene couldn't help but wonder exactly what Sherlock had withheld from his recount of the dream. She wondered how much of their life together matched the dream he had, but figured she could grill him on it later. Her family was exhausting.


	16. Chapter 16

No one was quite sure how they had ended up at this point, but lo and behold, Charlotte Holmes was now married to one Colin Watson. Even though no one would ever say so, they never thought Charlotte would ever get married, let alone be the first of the Holmes children to tie the knot.

It was a small ceremony out at Sophie's home (actually small, only 100 people in comparison to the 400 people Sophie had pushed for). Charlie had insisted that this was where the wedding be held, claiming that this was the only place she would get married. And with an argument like that, it was hard to deny her request (demand).

The ceremony had been quick to the point, leaving much of the evening devoted to the festivities. Mary and Irene had flitted away from their husbands far earlier in the evening, leaving Sherlock and John to their own devices. John had been busy mingling with the guests while Sherlock had been standing away in a corner, probably deducing every person in attendance.

John walked over to his friend and offered Sherlock a flute of champagne. "So… grandkids?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't hold your breath. It took a lot for Charlie to get married. It's going to take a force of nature to get her to have kids soon, if at all."

John chuckled. "She's definitely yours," he remarked.

"Did you ever think you'd be at this place in your life?" Sherlock asked John.

"At my son's wedding? Sure. It's one of those things that has been high on my list of things to witness for a while."

"No… not just that. Your son's wedding, at which he marries my daughter."

"Oh. No. Definitely didn't see that one happening. I didn't think it was possible for you to procreate, until… well, you know… you did."

"Honestly, I don't know how you've avoided Mensa all of these years," Sherlock muttered jokingly.

John rolled his eyes. Some things just never changed.

The evening drew on and the event livened up. Dinner was served, and all through dinner, Sherlock couldn't help but feel completely happy. He didn't understand why he was so happy, but he was. This didn't bother him; he was just surprised by how little it took for him to be happy these days.

Finally, it was time for the Father-Daughter dance. Charlie looked petrified as she met her father out on the dance floor. "Why do you look like you've just seen a ghost?" Sherlock asked quietly.

"They're all watching me…"

"Of course they're watching you. It's your wedding."

"I know… but I don't know a lot of these people. Why are they so interested?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Because you're your mother's daughter. They're interested because you're interesting."

"Colin's so much better at all of this social stuff."

"Of course. He's his father's son."

"Have I made the right choice?"

"You're asking this now?"

"Dad…" she whined.

"Charlie, your judgment is far superior to most other people. You have made the right choice, no doubt about it. Now, the sooner you wipe that worried expression off of your face and relax, the less people are going to be interested in you. They're interested because you don't seem to be enjoying yourself."

"I'm not enjoying myself because they're all staring," Charlie laughed.

"They're not judging you. Everyone here loves you and wants you to be happy. Though, despite the fact that you're your mother's daughter, you probably didn't inherit your mother's grace. You've stomped on my foot a few times in those shoes and let me tell you, it hurts," Sherlock explained quietly.

"Oops," Charlie laughed.

About an hour later, Irene found Sherlock and sat down next to him. "How are you doing?" she asked him quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"How are you doing… one daughter married off, two kids left."

Sherlock smiled. "It's quite strange. How about you? Are you handling it?"

"I always thought it'd be Addie first."

"Me too."

"But it is fitting that Charlie got married first; after all, she came after we were officially married," Sherlock reminded Irene.

"Of course," Irene hummed as she leaned her head against her husband's shoulder. "Never thought I'd domesticate you though. Twenty-eight years later, and here we are."

"Ugh… you're getting sentimental on me."

Irene shook with laughter as she ran her hand through Sherlock's greying curls. "Charlie told me what you told her while you two were dancing. And you accuse me of being sentimental."

"That was out of a matter of necessity. Didn't want a runaway bride situation."

"Well, I'm sure if she had run away, Colin would have found her and they would have just started the honeymoon early," Irene pointed out.

Sherlock grimaced. "I think I'd prefer to remain ignorant to my daughter's private life."

"Prude."

"You share too much."

"Prude."

"Blabbermouth."

Irene smirked as she leaned over and gave him a kiss. A moment later, he stared at her wide-eyed. "Really? Here?"

She rolled her eyes. "Oh yes," she teased.

Sherlock exhaled and glanced around. "The kids won't miss us, will they?"

"Not at all."

"That's including John and Mary."

"Oh. Good point. Hmm… better make it quick then," Irene murmured.

As they were about to stand up, John and Mary walked past them quickly, ignoring their presence. They looked to be sneaking away for a private moment. Irene chuckled and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Shall we join them?"

"Um, no. I'm good."

She laughed even more when she realized what she had said. "Oh, not in that way!" she exclaimed. "Come on. Let's get out of here before your mother decides to go through the social calendar again. She caught me earlier, and honestly, because she's enjoying herself a little too much this evening, I had no idea what she was talking about. But, Mycroft has her, so we don't have to worry about her getting to bed safely."

"Where will we go?"

"I don't know. Are you safe to drive?"

"I haven't been drinking, so yes."

"Well, let's do that then. Let's just drive away."

"To where?"

"I don't know. Somewhere fun."

"And do what?"

"Begin the rest of our lives?"

"Why hasn't the rest of our life begun yet?"

"I'm sure it has, but this is only the first step. Charlie's married, which means that she's going to start thinking about kids, I think."

"You see, you and John seem to be under the impression that Charlie's going to start having kids. Are you sure that we're talking about the same person?"

"I'm not saying that she'll have kids, but I'm sure the topic will come up eventually. But even if Charlie doesn't have kids, we still have two other children who could produce grandbabies!"

"It sounds like you and my mother have been having a little too much fun with the alcohol tonight…" Sherlock mused.

"So?"

"No reason. Just making an observation. Do you want to go get our coats and I'll get the car?"

"Meet you out there!"

Sherlock waited for Irene in the car, watching as people came and went from the reception. Addie and Cole walked past the car, stopping to say goodnight before they headed back into London. Cole was as Sherlock had imagined, something that pleased Sherlock immensely. Julian had slipped away with one of the bridesmaids much earlier in the evening. Unlike in Sherlock's dream, Julian and this girlfriend were engaged, so his son wasn't as big of a player as his actions might have suggested.

But in the grand scheme of things, this was better than the dream. He still had all three of his children and he had a wife who still challenged him and complemented him in more ways than he could number. He still had John, who had Mary, who only added to the whole package. There was something to carry on his legacy, beyond John's blog or his own blog. Irene was right; there would be grandkids soon, and those grandkids would grow up and produce more children, and the stories that Sherlock and Irene would tell (mostly Sherlock; Irene's stories weren't necessarily age-appropriate for their own adult children, let alone small grandkids) would be passed along.

The noise of Irene opening the car door and slipping in brought Sherlock out of his reverie. "Are we ready?" she asked him.

"Yes. So, we can go anywhere?"

"Anywhere," she confirmed.

"Right then. And we're off!"

"Onward!" Irene cheered in her slightly drunken giddiness.

Sherlock smiled at her before turning his attention to the road in front of them.

Maybe Irene was right: maybe this was the beginning of the rest of their life.

End.

* * *

><p>AN: Sorry for the wait. I hope you enjoyed the story!


End file.
